Rob Dennis


Possible Movements in a Symphony Cut Off



That first look was November,
your slow despairing gesture
of hands and of hair,

and what I took away
was bound by hands and hair.


The message said,
green on black January,
“Did you like my crisis?
Its inside thoughts?
Its outside dress?”

I was drunk.
It was a giant lie.

The reply came back:
“Did you?”


Then trees like ionic columns
and snow and fluorescence
lighting the granite,
and then your shadow leaning
out of shadow.
I had nothing to say.

There were only
two things I wanted.


This is what happens:
Naked in March.

Naked but hovering back
above and below decision.
And then falling inward
on the floor of my office.
We knocked on the walls
and someone knocked back.


After the ides and the showers,
after the red lion amaranth,
we whispered of the Pictures,
and then you came to me
in the thick hand of June.


Supposing your yelp.
Supposing a light out.
Supposing each puddle reflected
each rippled dejection,
the heaviness of tradition.

How your mother couldn’t beat
the innocence out of you,
not with the tongue
of her bright buckle.

There were always keys enough
to show you that.


Stress fractures.
The concerto was too much.
Too cold for September and
socks and running on the bricks.
Forgot my key so had to throw
them all down a flight.
Until they struck you.
To stop you.  Until.  You.

© 2008 Electronic Poetry Review