Arsenic Lobster poetry journal Final Issue 2018
Rob Cook

The violet you found
on your bed still
dying there—

It cries the way a stone cries.

It says you exist only as a fear
of time passing.

Rain scratching through the walls
during sleep, when you have no name.


“I want you to forgive the leaves
that fall from the pain
of their bodies gone missing,” a man said
to a woman shattered
to nothing but cigarettes on the sidewalk.

It took the dust pan and broom
three hours to appear
with a custodian.

The life span of a darkly-written
violet abandoning
its last petal,

stained over a hole in the universe.


Inside the window:
first spring night,
a man rowing minnows
to the deepest part of the lake,

and beyond the window,
rain falling
in the days of Shakespeare,

shared without
the sound a touch makes

between the roses unable to sleep in the hard fog of the space wall.

About Rob Cook

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