re: new yorker, page 128 ("the way" by albert goldbarth)

the endless blue, where you can't
tell where the sky ends and the ocean
begins, where the middleman is missing
and it's just wind and water just
wind and water for thousands and
thousands of miles;

and he was right, it's silly to name it
"the sky"
because this is what it is:
it is
the piece of everything — absolutely everything,
the entire universe, everything that exists right now —
that you see
through the trees in your backyard

where the middleman goes missing
the earth drops away and there are
years and years of light separating us
from the sun and from all the milky ways
that no one sees

i'll

never grasp it

(do the stars conspire
to kill us all with loneliness?)



i will reach up my hands and they will be
silhouettes against the sky