Poetry
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The River
There are a bunch of flying insects
buzzing around my head right now.
I wonder if this means I'm dying.
I said hey honey and there was nothing so sweet.
No island.
I must be giving birth to something monstrous
And wild
When nobody is listening, I dig him up.
Anymore
I only write about what's in front of me
Right now, missing rain on small stones
Small river filled with osprey
And how do I pluralize that? How now
Can we both return
To being young with imagination.
The flowers here on stalks, and furtive men
In stalls. In my 50s, the yellows
Are expansive and everywhere you dare
To look. The water's getting higher now
And I'm afraid of things bilateral.
Anthony Robinson is the author of Failures of the Poets (Canarium Books 2023) and Broke Republic (Green Tower Press 2025). His poetry has appeared in The Iowa Review, Notre Dame Review, Crab Orchard Review, Sprung Formal, the New York Times, and elsewhere. He lives in rural Oregon.