Bodies practice in the park.
I watch. You would. Cued,
flocked, avid, drastic, dressed in black,

they throng over desiccated turf,
behold shrubs like lovers, jog
backwards in a pantomime of shock

rewound, hunch and bob with T-Rex
wrists, then tumble back to earth.
They are going to be experts

in it. Ecstatic, desolate, their faces
are a rapt line fleeting as the ghost
left behind by a cursor on a page deleted

or unwritten. You know, I’ve heard
that some people are still trying all
alone to make things that no one else has ever

thought about before. How
I couldn’t say. Around us,
grackles sleek themselves

into arrows that zing away
and back, chattering,
singing it.

Robin Myers lives in Mexico City and works as a translator. Her poems have recently appeared in the Yale Review, the North American Review, Pigeon Pages, Moist Poetry Journal, and elsewhere. She writes a monthly column on literary translation for Palette Poetry.