Violins in the morning well before
the opening bell, no thought to any breath
we’ll know, as long as we may take one:
Inside the cats are quiet, drowsy, no more
apple carts to empty, no more dishes to employ
No thought to any close impending,
or so I suppose, they’ll be well done
of all of this before to long. That’s how
I think the story goes.
Recent work by Bruce Robinson appears or is forthcoming in Tar River Poetry, Spoon River, Rattle, Mantis, Two Hawks Quarterly, Peregrine, Tipton Poetry Journal, North Dakota Quarterly, and Aji.