By Sofia Drew
After Louise Glück
It was October
and each second was rimmed with light such clean light.
This was, for me, an extravagantly emotional gesture.
It was the trees that propelled my thoughts away
from my body.
Such new light. Gentle green:
I can’t write about autumn in this city.
Everything, without cause, held a rare specificity.
Each second flared like a smoke signal.
Across a great distance, I saw it:
careful flames holding their silence.
There’s nobody to tell this story to.
Hills swallowed
the hot sea of everything.
Hush. I’m so far away.
It was spring
and each second splinters.
Such clean cuts.
This was, for me, a glorious sort of displacement.
Melting dirt floods memory back
into a new vessel.
Perennial colour. Subtle shift:
I kindle those green vowels.
Without cause, nothing holds.
A new second scorches.
I was a great distance, seen:
the fire became a naked mirror.
I tell this to myself:
let burnout run
the last desperate lap of my body.
Return. I am here.
Sofia Drew (she/her) is a poet and student of English Literature and Philosophy. However, the only time she feels she has the authority to call herself a ‘poet’ is in author bios (like this one you are reading now)! You can find more of her writing in Starling and Symposia Magazine.
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