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journey by irras han


j o u r n e y

b y    I r r a s   H a n

We rope in the miles,
count the lines, drag a net
full of random numbers that
dare us to analyze. The slow tracks
unroll a pixilated past:
notes frayed, bright shapes fade.

We do not stop;
our wheels turn, polishing the rails.
If a pause unfolds, unexpected
colors may rise, rust may form
on the crossing and uncrossing
of our paths. We read picture postcards

thick with dust, through the holes
in our traveling shoes. A small ring
of silence circles every scene
like the round mouth
of a baby
we do not have.

We look from side to side.
The ends
are not the ends.
The light, playing out its lifespan,
binds us.



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