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Chris Tonelli
POETRY
 
Resolution w/ Still Inlet

 

At the end of the tunnel of bungalows, the bay opened
white—a snowy field along the taut horizon, trapped
beneath the frozen gray monolith of sky. West Point

Island in the periphery. The bridge. The houses
on the far shore. Nature had replaced itself,
flipped over on the hinge of shoreline: sky of ice,

bay of cirrus. It seemed like a lazy substitution                                     
to us. We walked out into the short drifts blanketing
the still inlet. We cleared places in the snow

to see the ice, standing on it either to reassure ourselves
of the resistance preventing our submergence, or
to shed some light on the obscure problem by confessing

its weakness. Or ours. I thought about you going through.
If a certain deliberate activity was relaxed, there would be
no you. No me. This year, I will separate from my body.

 


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