Michael Robins

Next Time We’ll Get It Right

Soon the mind concedes how ordinary the shame has become. One more grief lost in the afternoon holding hands & the stories of what came before or when I might’ve done a better job preparing, thinking for instance, as I predictably might, of changing everything like the quick & frightening accelerations out on the street. It’s true I refer to north & south as up & down, staying quite late in the bathroom until the troubles wander elsewhere & still such difficulty in saying bougainvillea or slicing the tomato on the cutting board. I put on your necklace just that once, & said at my very worst, Three, maybe six months. Half a sentence cast among the shadows of these butterflies.

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