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As Rivers, Below

Jason Anderson

As shattering the papery air and serried cirrus,
the acid-washed sky, the receding gaseous needle pricks
of taut light and condensation and the nuclear cone of dawn The threadbare, anthracitic carpet, embossed
under bare feet like Braille; the somatic
transmission, the tinny, abdominal scrape
of landing gear, as leeched through
wool; as through funereal depths;
of the herniated duffels and the curlers,
of the tiny, peach-colored cruets of shampoo
in sandwich bags; in the syrupy obfuscation
of duty-free Drakkar Noir
As through nicked thermoplastic windows and tawny hills, the shadows, pliant; the dun-colored silos and pretzeled wire and fallow tracts of loam; as pellucid lakes, as rivers, below As pulling back the bow, as an arrow’s parabolic arc,
as a half dream of leopards and doves, as falling asleep,
the black cordless telephone, the suntanned crook of an arm