Stan Sanvel Rubin / Poetry 4.1 / Spring, 2016






A moth
caught in a window
against all the colors.

This rain of faith,
you can’t hold it.
Remember what it was.

Afterwards, candles
of sky point to the place.
This is not a funeral.



After love was over, I thought of reasons.
Reasons multiplied in my sleep like mice.
The answer to everything just below the floor
of the house I was in, asleep, dreaming
of a different room in a different house
where there are other sleepers
and other reasons for this dream.



It’s another wintery Saturday.
Wind off the strait.
Leaves fly like birds.

What makes me remember
your shadow in the doorway
shaking snow from a dark blue coat?

There’s a hard look to that sky.
In another few minutes,
this silence will end.



The evanescence of being
is brought home
by the toaster’s pop.

Burnt toast carries
the smoke of ruin
before tongue catches its sting.

In a kitchen as empty as this
you get the sense
of everything burning.



When they took the sky away, I woke to darkness
where thoughts replicated like shadows on a wall.

The walls were words you can’t put into a sentence.
Through the narrow slits I heard birds fly

into a distance I thought I could imagine
but as they flew farther, they vanished.

Bitterness fills the mouth intense as fear,
offering its poison like sustenance.

I was hungry for more. Night surrounded me
the way day surrounds you when your sun is weeping

honey through the clouds. When I looked out
to see the world without its furnace, I saw myself.

So many things the heart doesn’t tell the eye.
I discovered what makes light, its source.

Please forgive me, I whispered.
To the walls. To the birds.

70d5f718-3630-4078-bd1b-95787b7eb913Stan Sanvel Rubin’s fourth full collection, There. Here., was published by Lost Horse Press (2013) . His third, Hidden Sequel (2006), won the Barrow Street Book Prize.Works forthcoming in National Poetry Review, Red Savina Review, and Poetry Northwest. He lives on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State.


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