Stan Sanvel Rubin


Your eyes open like planets
suspended in nothing,
which is something we can’t see
on this blue dot of a planet
suspended in space.

Your mind clicks back on
after its disappearance
of how long? Hours
that might have been years
since you weren’t there to count them.

You are yourself again,
whoever that is,
with a dim shadow of memory.
Waking from nothing
to this bright room.

The Failure

When everything comes together,
the strangeness of the spider is lost
and the querulous small birds are vanished
into the generous sky,
weaving distance into a language
the way waves do, breaking on shore,
then your heart and mine,
which for now are only metaphors,
will merge the way words on a page
become a sentence, become a poem.

Einstein’s Streetcar

won’t slow down
for particles of light
won’t slow down
in waves of light
even in waves of darkness
the gravity of grief
races past planets
Pluto’s patchy moons
and mountains of ice
can’t bend it
the way straw is bent
before it snaps
in the goat’s mouth

Author Portrait

Stan Sanvel Rubin's work has appeared in such journals as The Georgia Review, Kenyon Review, Iowa Review, Agni, Ascent and, most recently, Gris-Gris, The Laurel Review and Poetry Northwest. His fourth full collection, There. Here., was published by Lost Horse Press in 2013. His third, Hidden Sequel, won the Barrow Street Poetry Book Prize. He lives on the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State.

View the website of Stan Sanvel Rubin