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Life goes to pieces. Books

fall from the shelves


by mindpower (as I once

thought, while reading Jung,


how important to hang

onto dreams).


Pages on the wind, cars going

everywhere at once. A million


ants incorporating their

territory. The shelves


were faulty construction.

The pile of books I will never


read. What drives me, saves

me. I’d prefer to be


the manifestation of a girl’s

dreams, what I once achieved


on cross-country trips,

while soothed by distant blue


tinged mountains and

telegraphic grids of light


that left great expanses of

black, where I could look


into the darkness and imagine

that I lived there.

Robert Detman has published fiction, poetry, and essays in over fifty publications, including Antioch Review, Causeway Lit, New Orleans Review, The Smart Set, The Southampton Review, Tusculum Review and elsewhere. His stories have been finalists for the New Letters Literary Awards and nominated for the Best of the Net.

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