Peter Leight
This Page Intentionally Left Blank,
unwritten on, there’s nothing on the surface, nothing inside, waiting to be lifted out, nothing left
out or ruled out, no restricted area, it hasn’t been promised or reserved to anybody, without
content or exclusions, without even the beginning of a hint of a plan, undeveloped, undivided,
completely open, which means unbounded, which means unlimited, which means not for the
faint of heart.
Description of the Brink
It’s not a straight edge, like a ruler or boundary. It used to be further away, but it’s not
any closer now. The distance isn’t uniform. Closing in as opposed to a conduit. In
places it curves one way or the other like a tail, or melts away. There’s no guard rail.
But it’s not a wilderness, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or a hook and eye. Sometimes
it shrinks, eroding or crumbling like a soft cookie, or tightens around us like a shoreline
or slip knot, every day a little less. A little less. A slow erosion, the opposite of
fulfillment, although of course agency can be apparent even when it’s not actual.
Softened or less rigid areas catch and bend back. But it’s not dangerous, in case you
wondered. Not protected, like a safe harbor. The ground slants down slightly, as if
making a suggestion, as if making it easier for us. Nobody’s taking attendance, but we’re
not running away, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not letting go―absence isn’t just
turning away or being turned away from. We stay in rows of bungalows with names like
Yellow Rose and Paradise, cottages, pastel−colored, with shiny floors and ribboned
lounge chairs in the yards, on the margin, sometimes you’re grateful just to have one. I
think they show well. I think they’re a little edgy, receptive―sometimes I think it’s only
a matter of degree. There’s hardly any room for human error.
Peter Leight has previously published poems in The Paris Review, Partisan Review, AGNI, and other magazines.
Return to July 2013 Edition
unwritten on, there’s nothing on the surface, nothing inside, waiting to be lifted out, nothing left
out or ruled out, no restricted area, it hasn’t been promised or reserved to anybody, without
content or exclusions, without even the beginning of a hint of a plan, undeveloped, undivided,
completely open, which means unbounded, which means unlimited, which means not for the
faint of heart.
Description of the Brink
It’s not a straight edge, like a ruler or boundary. It used to be further away, but it’s not
any closer now. The distance isn’t uniform. Closing in as opposed to a conduit. In
places it curves one way or the other like a tail, or melts away. There’s no guard rail.
But it’s not a wilderness, if that’s what you’re thinking. Or a hook and eye. Sometimes
it shrinks, eroding or crumbling like a soft cookie, or tightens around us like a shoreline
or slip knot, every day a little less. A little less. A slow erosion, the opposite of
fulfillment, although of course agency can be apparent even when it’s not actual.
Softened or less rigid areas catch and bend back. But it’s not dangerous, in case you
wondered. Not protected, like a safe harbor. The ground slants down slightly, as if
making a suggestion, as if making it easier for us. Nobody’s taking attendance, but we’re
not running away, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not letting go―absence isn’t just
turning away or being turned away from. We stay in rows of bungalows with names like
Yellow Rose and Paradise, cottages, pastel−colored, with shiny floors and ribboned
lounge chairs in the yards, on the margin, sometimes you’re grateful just to have one. I
think they show well. I think they’re a little edgy, receptive―sometimes I think it’s only
a matter of degree. There’s hardly any room for human error.
Peter Leight has previously published poems in The Paris Review, Partisan Review, AGNI, and other magazines.
Return to July 2013 Edition