“Brevity is the fuse attached to every breath,” a Poem by Bob Hicock

The sadness of drums is the absence of melody,
meaning the heart has no tune that we know of,
not the actual heart and not the metaphorical
idea of time, the days being tuneless
or more like an orchestra whose sole
purpose is tuning up, getting ready for a
performance that never arrives. It can seem
that way,

can’t it, or be that way, and I need to believe
that a more purposeful, meaningful way
of looking at birds is out there
waiting for us to find it. Sometimes

I just want to put a metal spoon in a
microwave and watch the possibility of
sustenance
throw off sparks and threaten to burn the house down.
All kinds of sustenance, the food kind, the soul kind,

the kind that tells me to get up and try again.
When my father was dying and I whispered in his ear,
You did your best, he smiled at me
with all the recognition of a window
that had just been washed, that was clear
about having nothing in particular on its mind. Near
the end, he thought we were trying to kill him,

to bury him alive, and I did want him to die
though not with dirt in his mouth but wings
on his tongue or back or whatever parts
could turn light enough to fly away. Please don’t blame me

if I still hope to see a fire look over a
menu at Denny’s, then read a book while
waiting for its pancakes to arrive. The
magic

of maple syrup. Of being here to know
I will not be here much longer than a cloud
wondering what to do with its hands.

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From Breathe by Bob Hicock. Copyright © 2026. Used by permission of Copper Canyon Press.