The View from Dmitri’s Apartment

Robert Ford


The four lanes of the road, with its

fickle asphalt, appeared to be

straight, in the same way that the

horizon makes the Earth look flat;

only from a certain perspective, 

or with undamaged wings, can 

you truly appreciate its curve, yet

somewhere beyond our sight, it

began that imperceptible turn to the

left. Eventually, it would wrap itself

right around the entire city, in an

orbit of imperfect symmetry, and 

come back to this very point, where

it was, in fact, beginning to quietly

eat itself. So all those people we 

could see walking, seven floors below,

sand grains at the mercy of something

unseen, or else riding in buses and

on bicycles, were never really going

anywhere. And the fields and trees,

the cemeteries visible on the other 

side, were probably nothing more than 

a painting, or a collage of assorted

illusions the width of a whole

continent, unfurling itself eastwards 

as far as our eyes could travel.



Robert Ford lives on the east coast of Scotland, and writes poetry, short stories and non-fiction. His poetry has appeared previously in publications in the UK and US, including Clear Poetry, Firewords, Melancholy Hyperbole, and Wildflower Muse. More of his work can be found at

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