That Song
That Song Now that want has burned off like fog I’ve remembered joy, its physicality, heart lungs light with it, the insides of limbs sex like an elevator whooshing up. Now I see August hanging onto green, slow and weighty, swaying imperceptibly to an old song. Now clouds move the wrong way toward the river slow lost some far off ocean changing the sky’s tune. I’m right where I wanted to be, lost, too, and here, slow and weightless, wanting nothing. Hearing it. S. Robbins, from Readings
Sherry Robbins 
Exactly. Exactly this age. Exactly How.
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