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This poem is taken from PN Review 255, Volume 47 Number 1, September - October 2020.

Clouds and Privilege
Two Poems
Nyla Matuk

Watching the guard at the Viennese design museum,
his unknowing gathering, rising. He asks us where we are from, really.
We might have asked the same, but didn’t.
We may seem a system of particles, familiar
from afar. Yet we’re strange when you take a closer look,
like his trompe l’oeil ingress. He paces as a hover of droplets drops
the whole spectrum of light and electric energy down on us.
Our thoughts hold, with headroom. Once lost to us, they let us get lost, too.
Everything in the gallery is finely developed but trepidatious.
The objective of the game is not to speak
each other into existence, in any part.
Not to advance as a universal symbol
or presage bad times ahead. These lucid corridors lead
to a false infinity – certainty. Even a history of fog.
They are historic, tragedies pre-arranged. Forgettable,

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