Bruce Robinson

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Ford

imposibles rios
—Neruda
Fleuves impassibles
—Rimbaud

To cross this river, of many, to cross,
interrogate the trees that look as though

they'd flourish amid the obliteration

of cities, despite the tumult of
invective, despite the grease of pleasantries,

something like justice cut off

at its knees, the chatter of ice
at estival festivities

you'd think indifference not possible

but tonight affords a river. or so
it seems to seem, adrift in our beds,

regardless we dream.

Recent work by Bruce Robinson appears or is forthcoming in Seventh Quarry, Pangyrus, Résonance, Shot Glass, Connecticut River Review, Maintenant, Evening Street Review, Rattle, Spoon River, and Xavier Review.

Years ago, Roger Rosenblatt wrote in NYTBR that humiliations are suffered by most writers most of the time, but that those humiliations are chump change compared with those endured by people who work for a living, and are grateful simply to make it home. So here I am, between homes, waiting. :-)