(1960 - / Boston / United States)


on a river, a tree in blossom, one
pink bud—unopened—falls

& is carried downstream & out
to sea. From

above the other petals seem to
carry it. Closer—

this is our map, these our
footprints, we

grew up drinking this water. At the
start there

was doubt, we lit a torch, no one
believed we would

make it. Closer—

the legs, the heart, the lungs. It's
too soon to say

we were lucky, it's too soon to say

until the cloud is pulled back
from the sky, until the ringing is

pulled back from the bells. Look—
everyone we've ever known

runs without thinking
not away but into the cloud, where we are


by Nick Flynn

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