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The Moving Walkway Is Ending

by Carolyn Guinzio

We are not here. My fellow-
assemblages of cells and I thread
our minds through the loops
of our bodies, and thus the terminal
burden is eased. All that is here
is what remains here: The house-
fly composed near the edge
of an ear, dragging its legs
down its face. House finches wait
in the buzzing eaves for night.
Their gaze is fixed on the sky,
and a flickering phosphorous grazes
the eye. Cold may threaten to reach
around the curve, but darkness
will never arrive. House ants, forever
dismantling a sweet, pull their glaze-
slowed claws through the grate.
They are here, but we are not.
We look down to step into the self.


Carolyn Guinzio is the author of four poetry collections, including SPINE (Free Verse Editions, Parlor Press, forthcoming 2015), and Spoke & Dark (Red Hen Press, 2012), winner of the To The Lighthouse Poetry Prize given by the A Room of Her Own Foundation. Her work has appeared in The New Yorker, BOMB, Harvard Review, Entropy, Boston Review, and elsewhere. A Chicago native, she lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas, where she is text editor of the online project YEW: A Journal of Innovative Writing & Images By Women. (11/2015)

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