by Sam Robinson
Jeu No. 28
“Some have perished in our work.”
Yes it is as cool as it sounds, being
in a hierogamous band. We must play
on through all cataclysms, the real
and mere appearances. You recognize
this song, you’ve heard it before, as I
strike up the notes on my bruised horn:
Dada dadadada dada dadaaaa
Jeu No. 29
The vault of theater stands above
black and white tile, all situated
in that familiar pattern of a secret
kissed cheek behind stone doors.
There is a theory of what occurs,
but I will not bore you with details.
Does the imagination still wander?
Can you supply yourself meaning
when presented with the obscure
features, obscure as empty space
between danger and safety? Yes,
you can. I believe in you. Maybe.
Maybe not. Does it really matter?
I leave you with this, the ultimate
question.
Jeu No. 30
There’s a hair across your lip and it makes you
sad, like nothing fun will ever happen again…
just because the wedding is delayed, you feel
like it’s been cancelled? No chance! Or choice
in the matter, really, the unity of spirit & matter
is all preordained. In fact, time isn’t even really
passing by. We’re waiting like now isn’t Now.
****
Sam Robinson is a writer from Massachusetts whose work has appeared previously at Spectra Poets, Soft Union, La Piccioletta Barca, Grotto Journal, and elsewhere. He is the author of a poetry collection, Man with Head Removed. He publishes regularly at sunworship.substack.com. Sam can also be found at @baldsinatra on Instagram.