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Hypothesis, Proof


A week of nonnegotiable fantasy, days
of unmovable image—in a locked room,

against a door, in front of the window.

I, of course, am wearing a skirt, stockings
holding onto my thighs. You look

and then look down. You think

what you think. There's only this table
between us—a slight expanse

of wood and steel, file cabinets,

note-taking. You rely on me
and I you, not to. But I'm undependable

with the right kind of pressure.

I look outside at the land you love
clearing its throat, preparation

for singing. We have an understanding.

A bridge arches over the river, river
rises to meet it, pigeons fly out

from the dark underneath, and starlings

rise and fall in parabolic sweeps, glissandos
drawn from architecture and math, music

almost impossible to play.


Amy Dryansky

Grass Whistle
Salmon Poetry / Dufour Editions


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