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