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
Exactly. Exactly this age. Exactly How.
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