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S. E. Rindell

Love as a Spatial Presumption

The night fills itself in
like a cup, or else
a receptacle made of lines;
imaginary boundaries like
the sort closely obeyed
by children. But, oh

—how we are penitent.
Wrapped in the dim dust
of faraway stars we take
our flesh for intangible;
we are absent in the manner
of a black hole—vacuous,
hungry, absorbent
of one another, repletion
a demise in itself.

And why not? There is time
for the greater decisions to be
carefully considered; like,
will I surrender myself
broken to discover you
have no faith in memory, that
you lack the courage to say,
yes; this really happened,
this & that were true;
once, I loved you.

Robinson Jeffers’s Rock Fetish

The fondness
Robinson Jeffers had
for rocks
doesn’t surprise me.

It is reasonable
that a poet
should love
a sentinel,
standing against
time, shouldering
all we are
unwilling to believe
such as
the immutability
of three dimensions,
rendered graceful
by the tyrannical
persistence of a

©2005 by S. E. Rindell

S. E. Rindell is a writer and poet from San Francisco, and has recently completed her first novel. Her work has appeared in The Georgetown Review, Sulphur River Literary Review, and The Texas Review. She is an active member of l'Alliance Francaise, likes to paint in greyscale, and spends much of her free time looking for new hiking trails in her native California.

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