Keegan Lester

The Topography of a Roundabout

 

 

when there are no cameras

 

to translate the quiet.

 

when I think in the backyard:

 

you’ll never be manhattan

 

and like rushmore, the faces

 

in the trees look smaller in real life

 

who’s bark winter pealed back

 

look like the faces of the imaginary

 

forepeople that helped me

 

found this place. and like rushmore,

 

we make postcards

 

to help preserve their memory

 

during the summer months

 

and I apologize to everything I’ve ever loved

 

for overlooking the sovereignty

 

of your life without me.

 

for not seeing you were too big

 

for the stadium pools they kept you in

 

after the show. we are all created

 

equal parts stardust

 

and I gathered with the rest of them each fall

 

to watch the strongest collide

 

into each other in front of stadiums

 

and someone called this the italian renaissance,

 

medieval, the end of civilization. beauty

 

finds such crush inside beauty:

 

what was above us, had always been

 

above us and what was around us

 

now apparent only in its indifference

 

to what we once thought. this town:

 

a blistered and broken mouth—

 

I admit I was high when I first noticed

 

the tectonics of things, their movements—

 

the oxiheads on the staircase

 

now younger than me. and these

 

our mouths. and these our stars to share.

 

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