poetry. So does getting my New Yorker in the mail.
The Long Up
You can see the
land flattening out
near the top. The
long up you've faced
is going to stop.
Your eyes feast
on space instead
of pitch as though
you'd been released.
The measured pace
you've kept corrupts
with fifty yards
to do--fifty
times as hard
against the blue.
-Kay Ryan
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