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Landscape with Black Coats in Snow
by
Richard Siken
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A door had been opened and could not be shut and then it was shut. I turned my back and felt the vacuum of my leaving. I live in big spaces, so I'm left alone in big spaces. Thinking in the language of the enemy. Moving through the landscape of the enemy. We were spies and the confidants of spies, pockets and telephones, gathering evidence without leaving any. Spies feel like they know something important. It is a feeling. Opulent. Grand. We invented a fence in the middle of the snow so we could meet at the fence and whisper. Clemency at the fence. These small repeated revelations stabilize something. Faith in snow, bravery in snow. A daily maintenance. Is this your sadness? asks the trashman. No, that is a fishbone and that is a soup can and that over there is no longer recognizable. Paint ghosts over everything, the sadness of everything. We made ourselves cold. We made ourselves snow. We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other's knowledge. To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery. All day the snow falls down, all night the snow. I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story. We left footprints in the slush of ourselves, getting out of there.
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