Fiction | March 01, 1992

This story is not currently available online.

Standing up straight is getting to be more and more difficult these days; always I am leaning into the gray south wind, the land and the sea are leaning, creaking like Greeland ice teetering, everything pale and on tiptoe and leaning downhill all the time. I wouldn’t be surprised if I were to wake up tomorrow morning and find the whole thing tilting a bit too steeply and myself sent tumbling head over heels through Guatemala, Colombia, Peru, straight past the copper mines of Chile. What would happen if I were to just keep right on going, tumbling like a drunkard down the stairway of the world, all the way down to the bottom?

If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.