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About this Poem 

"I wrote this poem thinking about geologic time—the vastness of it compared to human time and human culture. I probably also had in mind Andrew Marvell's poem "To His Coy Mistress" (Had we but world enough, and time). So, I guess the poem is about time. Love and time and not ever having enough of either one."
—Sandra Simonds

Poem with Lines from Pierre Reverdy

Maybe the world will not be saved.
It will not be saved. Its commerce, its
every case also
moves into its geology
and then that geology moves
into some great exit of slowing
clocks and the history of saved light.

Listen, I’m not crazy. I want you to save
something for me. If someone says
something false, I will tell that person
“you are false” because I am full
of exaggerations and energy
and also because sunlight scatters
across this lake and just one beam
is enough to make my body insane.

The world will not be saved by despair
so we should spend it all on joy, right?
I despair. Does he despair? The desperate
characters walk onto the stage.
The stage a lake the lake a self I staged
The lake the self I staged.
They sing off key like me. There is no
harmony but when the children clap their
little hands, well, neither is there simile.
I washed the dishes; I folded the laundry.
I wanted to walk around this lake
like an innocent.

Copyright © 2013 by Sandra Simonds. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on June 5, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Copyright © 2013 by Sandra Simonds. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on June 5, 2013. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds

Sandra Simonds is the author of Orlando (Wave Books, 2018).

by this poet

poem

I’m a witch who lost all her powers, then
   in place of my powers, I got the coiled beauty
of seashells and sleeping infants. The coiled
beauty of eardrums, and the sound wave
of bells. The bells! This is the country of clouds.
       The molten body, the Floridian pinks,
       and

2
poem
Maybe silence adds to the pain
and maybe pain adds to the sea
and maybe the sea is only a reflection
of a ruin today
where the mind is unable to make out
how things used to be for us:
complete, with deities, a kind of 
order. Oh never mind the ATMs 
scattered throughout the medieval town
or the street art sprayed
2
poem

with the medicinal poppies of June
nor with Celan's bloom-fest of dredged stone,
      not with history's choo-choo train of corpses,
    not with Nottingham's Robin Hood
            nor Antwerp's Diamondland.

Not walking on the Strand in Manhattan Beach with her
       silicone