The world
is gone
like the exact
shape of a cloud
or the exact shape
of a hand waving
in the sunlight
from across
a crowded
train-station
parking-lot
to another hand
that waves back.
Come to think of it,
everything up to now
is gone.
And I have also
already left
even though
I still ride
the train
through the outskirts
of the city.
And I still sit
by the window,
the filthy
train-window
while what is left
of the demolished
buildings
go past
and the empty
billboards
and the transitory
architecture.
It's amazing
we're not
more amazed.
The world
is here
but then it's gone
like a wave
traveling toward
other waves.
Or like
the delicate white
spaceships
of the Dogwood
that float
as if there were
no gravity,
as if there were
no moments
isolated from
any other
moments
anywhere.
"Gone" by Malena Mörling, from
Astoria: Poems. © University of Pittsburgh Press, 2006.
Photography credit: Detail from "Left-behind children say goodbye to their migrant-working parents," by Xinhua/Ju Huanzong, 2010
(originally color).
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