Kirk Robertson
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January
Could be Butte
Battle Mountain
Livingston or Lamoille
It’s all about the same
In late January
rust pitted pickups
bounce around
3:00 AM chuckholes
Passenger doors
swinging open wide
Honey, I’m sorry
would you please
just get back
in the truck
Adjusting to the Desert
It’s been getting dark earlier
the light slipping away
before you notice winter
comes cruising up to the dock
You wonder as you watch
the light fade just how
the ship you’ve been expecting
can come in here where even
the memories of the sea
have long since dried up
and blown away just then
Three stools down the moon
crosses her legs high
lights a cigarette and
Right at that moment
you know what it is
the coyotes keep askin for
She leaves early after
driving everyone crazy
with the sound of her legs
drinking up their money
making these promises
about how she’ll show you
so much more tomorrow night
You listen to the broken
hearted cowboys just so lonesome
they could cry while outside
the stiff October wind tears
at the petals of a neon rose
spinning everything in sight
like some nervous kid
his first time on a bar stool
After closing you stand
on the ditchbank think
by not expecting a great deal
or believing too strongly
In things that are either too much
or not enough here and counting
Only on the dizzy sense
of well being you get
under this totally
irrational sky
That shit
you just might
get by
After all
Painting
I feel as if I am too near the sky
all the time
--Marsden Hartley
The mountains appeared
to be right there
at the end of this road
but he knew
they were close to
maybe a hundred miles off
He was sitting on the lawn
thinking about a figure ground
relationship that would
hold together work even
when looked at closely
for a long time
Sooner or later he
like the leaves would know
it was time and when he did
as much from
necessity as choice
he’d have to go
Have to move again
like clouds just can’t
keep still changing
from one thing to another
right before his eyes
The cool September afternoon
grass of his childhood
where he watched biplanes
form letters overhead
began to itch and
the skywriting came apart
With a horrible cracking sound
that ended up hanging there
for years like some bad motel
room painting just above
his line of vision
It was a landscape
into which winter came
sooner than expected
Outside trees with half
their leaves still on
broke under the strain
The birds he thought he had
in his hands pulled together
into a raggedy pink flock
headed south the brief
purple orange rush of joy
on the mountains
gradually turning gray
Before it was gone
These Days
Having too long
tried to make
sense of it all
To make it fit
contours of line
or mind
Only to realize
all of it
even what
I covet most
is evanescent
flames dancing
Either it is
or it isn’t
Walking the line
between real time
and the sublime
Bio
Kirk Robertson has published twenty collections of poetry including Music: A Suite & 13 Songs (Floating Island) and Just Past Labor Day: New & Selected Poems (University of Nevada). A new volume is in preparation and a collection of essays on the visual arts is forthcoming. He lives in Fallon, Nevada where he is Program Director for the Churchill Arts Council.