Michael Robins

Brief as It Was

Despite its grace, September bends a little cooler & the letters spill from their cards, the telephone ringing less than it did before. I am wading through the nowhere melodies until the strange, distant note forces the room. Afterwards a Kleenex. Afterwards the beach & all the waters we ever swam. The kisses & touch & I cannot, simply can’t but once again shoulder everything that’s happened. The leaves make their slow goodbyes but in the shady woods we smell the snakeroot & then see the flowerheads. We forget now the storm of feathers there at home among the daylilies. We believe, for now, we stand a chance.

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