FoundlingReview

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I imagined him something else, his back

the chromatic wings of a butterfly, perhaps.

 

Nothing so unidentifiable.

 

Graves breathe beneath my feet

as I stare

 

into his face unfurling, scattering

—a dandelion decapitated

 

by the wind.

 

He etches crowds in mirrors

like horses galloping across ancient rock.

 

Men dressed in black bowlers & thick mustaches

riding on penny-farthings. 

 

He whispers: flesh is a constraint that splits,

overshadows our illuminations. 

 

No one can hear him but me.

 

Blood runs down the bridge of my nose,

splashes wax onto our letters

 

stamped & dried.

 

Dressed in a candy-striped suit under the drugstore banner

I wait, reading.

    


Justin Robinson is currently attending California State University Channel Islands as an English major. He recently won the Emmons Poetry Prize.



This poem was written with love & admiration for Ray Bradbury.





 





  


Copyright 2009