Michael Robins You Know It's Nearly Spring

(read by Maddie Pospisil)


I’m downright glad to be here with friends,

old & new, before you in this space &

when I say glad, what I mean are moments

back, one minute then two, two & three

you get the picture. You’re a smart listener,

very good in understanding & when I said

here, when I say, I am of course writing

private, select clouds of my head & the best

mustering that I can into words. My lit

& scrolled phone is boring, I don’t need it

I have poems & you are here, my future

with yours, your past brought out to answer

or to ignore. I have no convenient way

conveying Monday, how my dreaming swerved

& thinned to crying & thoughts of a beard,

not the child’s, not my son who had awoken

but my chin pretending more sleep & not

numbering its days, nervous, my hand up

over my face. Hair out the door & like string

when it goodbyes the balloon, the balloon

its air. Watch it in the poem, small things

I’ve seen, more real than real. I stare out

among puddles, each floating dollops of snow

& save the image in a distant room. Morning

wakes from yesterday, the crown of the sun

peeks & melts what’s focused, all I figure

I know, so little. Still I adore the objects

memory never lands, clipping from a head

at the barber pole, ball sprung & forgotten

by its bat, prayer invisible with oh god & yes

joining wishes wished but not yet blown

high between branches to the hawk, mid-halo,

one white field below & forever ignoring

happy strands of mice & rabbit, squirrel bone,

syllable of pillowed moss where a shadow

meets the ground & visited, revisited I’m there

& now its… Okay. I’m glad you’re here

I truly am. It’s Thursday, far from my son,

his sister & mother, closer to you, you who

lift your own private caption. I want our clouds

playing numbers, to warm in a single language

& saying hello, thank you, let’s you & me,

us & everyone not be through, not so quickly yet.


Back to 49.2