Monday, January 02, 2017


Cai Guo-Qiang, "Saraab, Endless," 2011;
photo by Hiro Ihara, courtesy Cai Studio

In this fog, it’s unclear where the
anchor lays. Pulling on the frayed
rope, and everything yielding, so:
nothing at the end of it. The wash
of gray-green harbor water licking
the bow, or the blood-rush in my
ears, I can’t tell which; they sound
the same. Unmoored, I drift past
the harbor’s mouth, so far past I
can no longer hear my own voice.

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