Robert Frost


The world was already the world and we were looking for ourselves. Like something mispronounced we kept repeating our names, each syllable a slice of concrete we tied to our feet for security. In those days, there were stories, an uncle ascending into cirrus, an aunt who never surfaced again, we dreamt of the long narrow road, the precision of a snowflake falling, the wrong turn that always got us there. In the end we went out beyond the scrub, to the free-to-air stations, thinking about sophisticated things, branch stacking and pork-barreling, the light in her smile or the time in the middle of an interview she reached out and touched his hand.

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