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54. The Gulf Stream

Something drives us, it’s true, this stream of air

that makes our bolide race along the freeway—

Whose lips release it? Where does it lead?

Who guides it in the dead of night, this discourse

dispatched in darkness opened by our tongues,

with one clear sound turning its lock, finding

its law of increase? When we skim along

the wrong surface of night, of language, someone

fixes our commas. Someone guards the pulse

of April, of these strokes that can cut through

the inky depths. Which law commands the sea

to rise and which preserves the body as

in amber? Superstitiously I make these marks,

an offering for you, for air, for fire.