Robert Balun | Three Poems



say it’s morning and it’s morning

and if you could please
take these strands of early light
hand them back to me
all assembled

I’ll wait for the tidy conclusions
to all of my problems
to ripple through

this little map of a dream
say it’s morning
but then today
gets messy

another day of news
the texture I’ll get filled with

and anxious like a cigarette

the first step of the commute
the turn at the end of the block

another branching
idea in time

the memory I
get folded up in

if you could please sing a song
spin it into breath
and send it out into the day

say it’s morning then ask
what do you want to fill your head with

I’ll press empty buttons
look at my marks in the ledger

say it’s morning and again
the weather collapses

we’ll look for our inheritance
the map is a fractal

I think I’ll have enough for the rent this month

the rest can be sacred

I’ll look for the clouds you scattered from the window
zion tagged across the ledges of the buildings

you know all that talk is bad for you
a head full of time
you should be leaving

but the door is a door that might be a door
but is really just filled with landscape

flowerbeds vivid
in persistent lighting
on and on into access




inside this you
is the past
and tomorrow
morning is perfect
handcuffed to
a cartoon
searching a bed
for wishes
I know
you want
me to tell you
that I know
you want me
to tell you
it’s fine
to slip by
and lie down
suspended in
the subatomic
ecosystem of
return to light



earn to survive
the everyday
conveyer of meat

an unraveling I
pirouette to
chromatic mask
made of pixel
I set and I sip to

time passes you
wake from and
find this is who

you are now
say it’s morning
and it’s morning

life unspools like a story
a room full of echo

you plant flowers in the bed
want for them to grow
towards the crown

a prayer to remember
the body made of earth
the body made of sun

each an identity of light

vessel shaped

in the way planets are made
over years of impact and abrasion

a map of how you crack
against a history of static

until the weather
wreathed in gold
dissipates away

a home filled with the last of the sun

I hope when I get there I’ll be so happy
I can destroy my possessions

hymnal in
cascading glass
splintered chairs
clothes ripped from closet
bundled on the floor

I guess this is what will make me right

to just one day decide
to implode your life
that it was all only
an agreement
something you could
walk away from

to live inside the silhouette of trees
their topography of breath
traced in branches

to sway in the faded day


Robert Balun received his MFA from The City College of New York, where he was a recipient of the Jerome Lowell DeJur Prize for Poetry and the Teacher-Writer Award. His debut chapbook, Self (Ceremony), is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press.  His poems have appeared in Bodega, Smoking Glue Gun, Heavy Feather Review, Word Riot, Verdad Magazine, and others. He teaches creative writing and composition at The City College of New York.  Find him online at