Word for/ Word

Robyn Art

Bust Moment

In your version of events everything happens
not so much the opposite of the way
I describe it as more or less
definitively not that.
So much bombards us, I mean the way
the breeze carries its pheremonic swells
past the center for at-risk youth,
September casting its nubby
and self-referential shadow.
Cruising off the exit with the kiddies sacked-out
in back, rocking my Uggs
and my signature Disgruntled-Housefrau chic,
the moon rises lusty and fatuous
like the things that happen in us
only at night. I believe there are things
that happen in us only at night.
Lugging the brokedown artillery southward.
The Parkway humming between the trees.
The azaleas brutalized by wind.
I could’ve said a lot of stuff, and didn’t.