The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Words by John Timothy Robinson
Image by Christine Stoddard
*Author's Note: For Robert Bly.
I’ve fought with you and we’ve never met;
taken your words, given them thought,
laughed in realization
of what I thought you said but did not say.
Meaning grows in the margins of my book,
like a text unto itself, underlined,
scrawled, question-marked and high-lighted.
I will not sing a note of pretense,
not even blur the line.
I had a different thought each time,
made my peace about the fifth
and somehow, don’t blame you, not at all
for feeling how you felt.
Sometimes I’d like a separate way myself.
All that’s just another ditch.
Everybody’s misread, maybe not read enough,
not talked to nor explained.
How can we not interpret signs?
Eventually, I’ll go back, read some more,
correct the notes that were mistakes
of reading, and of direction inward
out of reason, read the words again,
knowing just as much, or not enough, and write.