Michael Robins

What Really Happened

Cherry blossoms, confetti, a sidewalk
lost like a ball. Closing gates, hands

unfolding letters, blankets, anesthesia.
Snowfall & its shadow. Christian boys

up & coming like washrags on a spout,
belts missing like a rib. Jokes turning

on surplus of seeing, tree & the pollen
& the bees. Translation toward rules

of a blackened skirt. Fuel & firewood,
divorce & ruin, a vision like drinking

like lions or shares. Like old portraits
slipping out of reach. An idea of spring.

---

Opening Night at the Discotheque

This throbbing mystery, diction
when friends save face & remove

their faces altogether. Shackled,
they aim my complicated steps

that drop fully into dark streams
slurring. I revolt, keen pleasure

keeping this dance from igniting
like a globe. My visions include

bottles spinning, juggled knives,
men & women edging erratically

on three hands for a retro hustle.
I’m a different me than that me

you recollect. I’m old fashioned
& the running man not yet born.

Crowds imbue the polished floor
like apparitions, a revolving cast.