Passing, or to come

by Jordan Eisenback

There was, once, last time, an instant
not of clarity perhaps, but brevity
when I couldn't doubt the pluck of distance felt
the resounding clack of home purloined.

There are whole ages, epochs, when
the slope of the hill: the crest; the cusp;
the rise of line;
is the length of hemispheres

not the Indies, east or west,
but the nexus, the nadir where longitude begins.
Over which I'd travail.

It's impossible to know, to verify, except by shift
whether of pressure, or weather, or tread of tire
when the line moves from played out to drawn in
tugging at, perhaps, my wrist, or arm, or chest
pulling,
threshold-seeking

I'd prefer not to leave, or
I'd prefer to stay

Jordan Eisenback was the place winner of the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.