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.

Bruce Robinson
Suburban Threnody

Nikki Gonzalez
The Luxury of Grass