OPIATE – A NARCOTIC DRUG (I) | ROSS ROBBINS
Loneliness makes me pliable. My voice's imperceptible
shift from un- to sure, it's water
run down a maple tree's moss. Drunk
on punches too rummy to toss the baby
with the bath. I'd stick the tail
on the path at hand, the matter
lost in a milky wash. Oxycontin
flushed the face and mind
plumb raw with forgetting's friction. Fire
sale down at the party store! Plastic
tchotchkes for a Friday. Save the date
from a night with me. Hovering nightly right
at knowing some new something to say
about the weather, the time. Is there
time to split a hair's yolk
to the matter's heart's marrow-
bone? Or the calcium weave
of a shell's crack crying the dropped
stitch blues? Palpable intangibility claws
at the kitchen door. Some sweet treat
pours black smoke from the stove.
Let me tell you a story.
Ross Robbins is a poet and painter based in Portland, Oregon. Recently, he has been painting lots of triangles and visiting the otters at the zoo. His full-length debut, THE THREE EPs, is available now from Two Plum Press.