Poetry: Justin Robinson

There





                                                            ~

Now he’s unseen. Let’s begin with time. My brother’s stare. Crystal spheres. He says, I’m here. His hand slips from the frame. In his room I hold a lamp left behind. Face to the window, through curtains, air tides me. Waiting on stone. Stepping there gives way. Crossing opens my tongue.









                                                            ~

Wind swarms the stone steps. Lamplight moves the hour, led by lost hands. His arced shadow grows. A body tattered & robed. Another wades unknowing. I bring the light closer, wipe moss from his mouth. Placing rock on string at the foot of the trail, I breathe deeply

                                                            finally









                                                            ~

My brother’s fingers bend the sky. Branching oblivion. He splits tall grass. Gone curves the path. His eyes flash my reflection shaking from light. Turning toward him, darkness dissolves; bedraggled, the trellis we speak through falls. Hand beckoning beyond memory’s skin.

                                         There

                                                            I’ve always

                                                                                    been









                                                            ~

In  a  meadow  of  hair  he  beats  a  floating  drum. Bone gates throw open. Entering, I offer a handful of flesh. The halved heart sleeps. Flowers curl toward night’s edge.

                                                            My

                                         blue

                                                                                    limbs

                                         sway

                                                                                    ahead









                                                            ~

Past tangled trees a hill cuts sailing fog. My brother points to the angle of ascension. Convex of crying. I give him my arm. He uses flesh, seeking words. Circles in soil. Traveling there. The branches we pull apart, death patient, scrapping eternity for leaves.









                                                            ~

Browning underfoot, flowers speak distance. I see the string climbing. Solitary light expanding night. There is more. A forest in silent repose. Dead trunks a ring around me. Earth on end. Now steep the slope. His teeth crack on parting words.









                                                            ~

All time I feel etched in bone, deepening, fibrous as dream. Weigh your fractured sight. I’m under moon’s unsheathed cry. See me slit across the hillside. Toss the shadow you cradle into light that punctures your overgrown heart. Everything’s found. A blood orbit washes you toward me.









                                                            ~

And yet distance is kept. His voice ripening around my wrist. Lips astray. Peel the way rot runs in ruins. All green, I’m clearing, certain I see you, outside the stone. My shoulders oar air, bones trailing behind. You tunnel through

                                                            silence









                                                            ~

Gate me there. Inside the hill frame stones swell close to speech. I speak of a peak. Shadow waiving world. Mine leaves the mouth. Resting time.

                                                            A

                                         beginning

                                                                                    gathers









                                                            ~

My brother birds forth, holding a heart. The light in a house below. My stone mirror. There hangs a door. Back of before. He untangles my hands. This wintering no younger. Ever in you a boatman steers. He swings a key from your chest.

                                                            Alive

                                         in a                            forest

                                                            of rest









                                                            ~

Seams night opens a mouth of retreating stars. You fling wide the here. Sloping hill the eyes roll down. I have two buried in you. Light collects your falling heels. My throat thick with words. The house a wider shape.









                                                            ~

We walk down the hill. Water fills each step. It’s dissolving I misremember. A letter in his hand, the pages torn. You can’t rewrite these bones. I wade through his stare. The reflection of his finger making patterns on the air.









                                                            ~

Far the streak of this path. He leads me past. Gardenias at my feet. They bleed release. I fold his fingers. Hill stretching clear. His breath behind glass. A lake before I find him intact. Water arrives through the cracks.









                                                            ~

Earth stairs him. Taller in you I stand. Opens the eyes. Quietly, he outs each knot. My tendons uncurl the words I am. A passing before me. His milky glance. Gates the wind blows wide.

                                         Nothing

                                                                       swells

                                                    between

                                                            us









                                                            ~

Invites me here. His palm full of flowers. Stands the field of shaking water.

                          The face pulls into.

                                                     There’s this

From the overgrown night he swims to sight. His lower half detached.

                          I

                                         show

                him

                            the

                                            string

                                                               Leave

                                                                              your

                                                                                        weathering









                                                            ~

                Collapses the frame

                                                     His hands

Not long the wait. He throats the house open, speaks of building windows. Even without air.

                          The water I press toward him

                                         Eyes me near

                                                               (time coils)

                                                     Now I see you

                                                                              Slips a door inside









                                                            ~

                          Here

                                                     words

                                                                              follow me mute

                                                     footprint all

                          I

                                         rearrange

                                                                              your voice

                (I place)

                          on stairs

                                                     will walk

                                                                              the way out









                                                            ~

                                                     grip the rail

                          each ragged step

                                                                        leaning floor

                                                                                                other door

                                    flesh no longer holds









                                                            ~

                  no blood lines

                                                                       the staircase

                                          only

                                                            a space

                                                                                    I fall from

                        outline of streaming

                                                                          stems









                                                            ~

                        see the body

                                                                                  unlatch

                                    in light

                                                                       of wait

                        the way

                                                           steps

                                                                                     bring forth

                                   waking

                                                                        there

                                                      again











IMG_1505Justin Robinson lives and works in San Francisco. His recent poems can be found in New American Writing and comma, poetry.