Hard to imagine the interior of words and what they’ve done to each other.
For example: the muting of storms beyond the alphabet.
The rain a means of counting.
A lantern monk asks: if I stop looking at Ash Mountain will it fit in my eyes again?
Take a snowflake apart-- wolves freezing there, on the moon.
A man breaks his arm.
From the inside his shadow breaks.
Nobody lives in the approaching autumn—nobody exists in that leaf.
The sound it makes falling is the ground.
The crickets growing louder
the farther I walk
through what hasn’t been remembered.
For each heartbeat I have a different life.
What I tell you in those lives
makes the birds darker, even from here.
-- Rob Cook lives in New York City’s East Village. He is the author of six collections, including Asking my Liver for Forgiveness (Rain Mountain Press, 2015), Undermining of the Democratic Club (Spuyten Duyvil, 2014), Blueprints for a Genocide (Spuyten Duyvil, 2012) and Empire in the Shade of a Grass Blade (Bitter Oleander Press, 2013). His recently re-released Last Window in the Punk Hotel was a Julie Suk Award finalist. Work has appeared in Asheville Poetry Review, Caliban, Fence, A cappella Zoo, Zoland Poetry, Tampa Review, Minnesota Review, Aufgabe, Caketrain, Many Mountains Moving, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, Harvard Review, Colorado Review, Bomb (online), Sugar House Review, Mudfish, Pleiades, Versal, Weave, Wisconsin Review, Ur Vox, Heavy Feather Review, Phantom Drift, Osiris, etc.