A Brief History of Edges


A Brief History of Edges

This road leads nowhere. I live at its end where breezes
wilt and the sun still burns my darkened skin.

I’ve sailed to Oman, but have never seen the Dakotas.
My friend searches for the concealed parable in this truth.

An early clay map depicted Babylon surrounded by a bitter river,
and an island named the sun is hidden and nothing can be seen.

Fitting the limitless within boundaries, she remembers no one.
The lighted sign says boots, but I see books.

Venturing from the shadows, she offers an accord: intersecting borders,
we must retain ourselves, deliver what calls.

In our place between the hidden and the invisible, consider
that neon gas possesses neither color nor odor.

What lives in creases and at the periphery? The isle called beyond
the flight of birds has crumbled from the lower edge.

Where I stand defines my portion of the spherical earth.
Crossing lines, I look to the sky, its bisected clouds.


49 thoughts on “A Brief History of Edges

  1. That’s really special. It’s so interesting how others capture thought and feeling, memories…..moments. I love your writing.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I am so completely enthralled – I’ve walked write into an adventure – a traveling epic that crosses time and distance and it leaves me lost, confused, found and questioning, literally on the edge, perhaps falling into some hidden shadow that will reveal something slightly less than real.


    Liked by 3 people

  3. This makes me think of one of my favorite books, China Miéville’s _The City and the City_ which depicts two cities that occupy the same space but the citizens of each city simply “unsee” each other and carry on completely unrelated lives. I have a feeling you might enjoy reading it, as a fellow seer of books where there are no books.

    Also, the lines “What lives in creases and at the periphery? The isle called beyond / the flight of birds has crumbled from the lower edge” made my head ring like a bell. 🙂

    Liked by 5 people

  4. Amazing writing, Robert. I’ve got little to say except each stanza seemed to involve the discovery of some tiny perfect thing that caused the entire vast darkness inside of me to turn in its sleep…


    Liked by 1 person

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