See Through


Astringent green,

a harbor of sighs.

Tinder, a dory.

Think Winslow Homer,

filled with foreboding,

Now, Voyager.


But life is not the movies.

Nor is its pictures

a resolute pondering.

I’ve never fainted on this burgundy,

not just so across the moth wings

the Persian rug thins.

I have not gone off to battle,

no immortal in lime, the sea air

off the cost near Dorchester.


It is not the same music,

rue, regret and fistfighting,

estranged dialogue—

where is a very attractive

and overcoming hope? My sacrifice? 

Where is it, if it is not

my every, singlet,

my everyday?


It’s the pin stiff of wheat,

that takes me to the sprinkle of anise,

and salt everything like March flaking snow.

Let’s eat brooktrout and make stories

by the row-full, let’s now go,


I can tell a fine one,

one about horses, a silvery montage,

once taken to the light,

and truncated abruptly

as life.


Rob Jones

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