Aubade

Bruce Robinson

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.

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