In the Pacific,
an abyss of swirling plas-
tics; and above us

in Pascal’s terri-
fying heavens, gear castoff
from Earth, floating. And

I? Let symbols be
symbols, contingent for us.
When I turn into

Failing Street and fresh
air off the ocean lifts my
spirits, my spirits

are lifted. And pleased.
Hyperbole catches me
off guard, plural, free.

Author: Tom D'Evelyn

Tom D'Evelyn is a private editor and writing tutor in Cranston RI and, thanks to the web, across the US and in the UK. He can be reached at D'Evelyn has a PhD in Comparative Literature from UC Berkeley. Before retiring he held positions at The Christian Science Monitor, Harvard University Press, Boston University and Brown University. He ran a literary agency for ten years, publishing books by Leonard Nathan and Arthur Quinn, among others. Before moving to Portland OR he was managing editor at Single Island Press, Portsmouth NH. He blogs at and other sites.

One thought on “Lift”

  1. I’m nobody/who are you? Not nobody, but plural! As you say elsewhere here: the expression of perplexed self-consciousness in the between. Realized in this poem. And I love the acknowledgment that amid the perplexity at times a lift, a smile, unaccountably appears, a little unintended and unearned shiver of delight. Excellent.


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