I’m scared of heights and speed, or of hitting the ground at speed from a height.
But I’m wondering if the poetic line might need to act, at times, as zipline: as a trajectory and velocity from A to B which carries with it the possibility of calamitous descent?
(Zip)lines pulled from Stephen Motika’s ‘Delusion’s Enclosure: on Harry Partch (1901-1974)’
good news of lights, curtains
suffering in homeless sea, thunder, lightning, lost to
and from Lyn Melnick’s ‘Casino’
that whirl around the masts. Here we are adapting, greenhouse,
Perhaps it’s not the line in isolation that feels, precarious, like a zipline, perhaps it’s something about the termini, the lines that have led us here and we hope will lead us forward, but these lines teeter for me, are written precisely yet with risk: Motika’s accumulation of commas that roil us towards our own disorientation; Melnick’s heavy caesura on the period and the fraughtwork of ‘adapting’ that follows, with its breakable image of the greenhouse.
What might it mean to write the zipline?