The Eights

by Dan Chelotti

selected by Yusef Komunyakaa



A woman will call from Paris;
I won't know who she is
Or is she'll fall in love.

Even the phone could vanish
And destroy the world.

From a bridge, a hand reaches out
And sweeps the letters away.
It's easy: the eights.

From here I could make it matter.

From here the only light by which I read is reflected.

* * *

To say I am in the mirror
Saying Sunday is another way of becoming smaller,
Folding: a given:

My eighth, my double, my shriven and malcontent:

The wolves have returned to circling the city,
The unnamed bells ring incessantly:

At hand, the earth, my friends, was never flat.

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