Against Perspective

It’s ridiculous to see a coastline
from an airplane.

There’s nothing you can do about it,
and if the limit between one
part and another—the flounce of land,
the oceanic blank

too just-shy of eternal to say
anything halfway dignified about—swelled
or shrank, how
would you know? You wouldn’t,

not at this distance, just as you’re too
close to watch your own fingernails
growing infinitesimally all
the time, which they appear to keep doing

even after you’re dead, and

Robin Myers lives in Mexico City and works as a translator. Her poems have recently appeared in the Yale Review, the North American Review, Pigeon Pages, Moist Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She writes a monthly column on literary translation for Palette Poetry.