By Helen Carey

A fascination with the blank spaces
keeps this city still — the quick 
inhale of dawn, the white 
between your words —

My senses stay grounded
in the world’s wait, with days
heavier than years and the explainable
like steam skating off lakes, 
refusing to sustain itself.

But I am always miscalculating 
distances, running into edges 
of walls, corners of conversations —
everything and everyone 
pieced too closely together 
for even the body to contain itself. 

Never able to avoid 
the physicality of even our 
pauses, we hold ourselves
tight, contain ourselves, control 
our selves, and lift up 
the space between as proof
that the world noticed us 
enough to dismiss us.
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About Helen Carey

Helen Carey is a twenty-something living in New York City, writing poems, and working as a copy editor and blogger. Drawing from the noisy beauty of the city, she's influenced by poets such as Maxine Kumin, Philip Levine, Tracy K. Smith, Frank O'Hara, and Louise Gluck. Helen is also a Sunday collage artist, avid hiker and traveler, and old-movie buff. Over the past few years, she's had several poems published in literary journals such as The 34th ParallelThe Aurorean, Mastodon Dentist, and Pif Magazine.

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