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Jupiter Is Blind


He says something private, only
for them to hear, and as soon

as the words leave his mouth
they begin to die as ochre leaves

die, suspended for a brief time
by the atmosphere's invisible

efforts, but proceeding towards
their place amid the bones

of yesterday's forgotten animals.
The earth flexes and warps,

the borders of its logic recede.
It's not his words that speak,

but his voice, and this is his time,
but like any time, it's merely

a time, and it too will close,
as it must. If, uncounted years

from now, the light reflected off
his face has traveled to some

far place and is collected
by the alien telescope, the viewer

will see a perfect record of him,
but it won't be him. If only

he knew that it's now that
his life is important. It's him

reflected in the shine
of the animals' eyes. The whales

live in the cold ocean for him.
They speak tonight to no

other thing in history but him.
The grasses on the cliffs cling

against the wind, the seabirds
travel the coasts and the sun

burns its own body for him.
As impossible as it seems

within all the ungovernable
enormity, he lives. At the center

of the black cavity, he's
the impulse that sparks the heart.


CJ Evans

Cimarron Review

Fall 2013


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