These Days

by Anthony Robinson

The day I tried to talk about the difficulty
Of joy was overcast and warm. A pineapple
On the kitchen counter. My ancient
Grandmother speaking in Spanish. The details
Are important but not precisely.

I keep pointing to things, as if to say: this one
Thing is interesting. And what is interesting?
It’s a lukewarm word, or as my one-time
Mentor would scribble in my margins: “tepid.”
I am a man of tepid desires, inclinations,

Of little to no impact. The nature of things
Escapes me and all the other philosopher-
Kings (which is half a joke, but which half?)
I believe in this, and then I grieve, unable
To find a way in. My former friends might say

There is no way, or, there is no end or in,
But only the way. I keep pointing to things:
Pineapples, grandmothers, difficulty,
These ungracious interpretations. No pointing:
The masses only applaud gleaming bared

Canines. This ripping of delicate flesh,
The repairing of same, of sadness,
Reemergence of a momentary tranquility.
I sit now by this river, aluminum cans floating
Down. There is a nowhere God in these naked trees.

***

Anthony Robinson’s work has appeared in The Iowa Review, The Heavy Feather Review, The New York Times Magazine, Sprung Formal, ZYZZYVA, and various other places. His first book of poetry, Failures of the Poets, was published in 2023 by Canarium Books. He lives in rural Oregon.