Convex Harbor

I wrote you a song swelling
with thunder but forgot
to send it. It had your name

on it, written in blue ink.
A color that reminds me
of port cities, where children

gather to send off ships
and the people on them,
whom they may never see

again, where crowds swell
like the song I couldn’t send,
to welcome back as if

in spring those who
journeyed uncertainly,
seeing many rosy dawns

away from steady contours.
Blue calls to mind the heavy
gaps between things these days,

through which light shines,
but in suspension, caught up
or jamming nauseous loops.

If anything is not rosy,
it’s this: cool and hardly
sharp. Neither sun nor

moon, almost fuzzy.
I am trying to say I miss you,
missed you, thought I might

catch your frequency zipping
through the coiled air, impelled
by those headlights I know

you’ve been blinking.
The song I wrote isn’t meant
to be chanted through a carpet.

Its blueness wouldn’t come through,
not when I can’t even get to you.
Maybe that’s why I let it slip.

There’s no harbor in this city.
Just widening sea, where-one’s-not,
and the now familiar drought

to which, in clearer atmosphere
and with a lucky wind,
I’d sing.

Matt Rosen lives in Oxford, England. He is the author of a book on time and extinction, Speculative Annihilationism (Zero Books, 2019), and the editor of an anthology of speculative fiction and philosophy, Diseases of the Head (Punctum Books, 2020). Currently he is a PhD student in philosophy at Oxford University.

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