Michael Robins
With Thanks
–for Jake Adam York

How even the words

permit themselves

spilling, continual &

I wonder what you

prized—

  Our parents

didn’t prepare us, how

could they, for these

turns of language that

lead us blindly—

 

My Friend, I call you

that now—

(& blue jays, blue jays)

  A kind of

wind that is or, rising

in our heads & along

latched doors in rows,

faithfully lifts the trees

blazing—

 

Grievance

by its widespread form,

all burns brighter also

without you here &

makes poetry possible