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L'AMOUR APRÈS L'ABUS par Nathalie Guilbeault

The mind cannot be idle.
Somewhere, it holds ends of ropes
Guessing which to tie.
A day comes that murmurs
Incandescently, like fate welcomed
By mania and illusion to its resting place.


If this place were recorded just to play
Like music, the drive to the cabin by the lake
Past miles of rail and concrete would be
A century of muscle holding one note.
But that would box us in the past.
There’s much yet to move, to saw, to build.


If I suspend, standing in place, a pier
Scoops beneath me. It’s fear
I shore against collapse and traffic
Toward and around me. You go by me
With others and I wave off the need
They parade to. I tie the ropes


To the parachute to drop me here,
The parachute that floats upward to the clouds.

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Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). You can find him on Instagram.

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