Gordon Matta-Clark: Conical Intersect

by Vala Schriefer

In the empty round rupture
In the yawn that yields to the light
In the circumference of the earth
The child guides trucks
Through the roundabout.

In the gaping dilated rings of open jaws
In the open throat of a rifle
In the open wound of a soldier
The second hand makes its rounds
Circumnavigating their days.

I can stick my hand straight through it
Punch the framed nothing
Take a dip in a shadow

And ephemeral as it may be
I can still see the forever of the space
And birds collecting like dust
To confront the ruble
This is the way the world ends.