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

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