IF YOU could get remotely close, you’d shake like someone with St. Vitus, the energy so intense where sky slams into earth you’d burst into a dancing fire. There, the folios of Galileo disintegrate to ash: the horizon convinces you the Earth is flat. You watch the sun rise, arch across the sky. In the evening, you spin a semicircle to watch it fall. You walk and walk towards that straight line. It recedes, though nothing is more still or bears more resemblance to a destination, a meeting place where suitcases sit in a row across a marble floor, and passengers, with bare open faces, look for someone they once loved. Certain times of day, a freight train turns the horizon into something solid. Cars shift quickly from east to west, no bend or curve to snag the noisy zipper of wheels on steel tracks. You don’t know if the horizon marks the end of earth and sky or their beginning, or if one rises from the other’s death like luminescent bees lifting from a badger’s shallow skull. Still, you try to get there. Every year, you’re convinced you’re closer than you were before.