“I love this song—don’t you?”

Piano, then whistling the piano.


“Love this song?  It’s so sad—”

I start to walk the house with my eyes closed

and wonder what it would be like,

to lose the both of you.


“It brings you to that time—doesn’t it?

Doesn’t it just bring you to that time?”


The answer I see is all red,

and this celestial wandering

brings my nose up close to the kitchen window,

through which a clear warm undressing

has begun of a devastating pair

of such young beech trees.



Rob Jones

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