After the autumn beings
drift into the forest
where sounds eat each other,

remember not to look at the trees.

(The trees are just the moments
when you shivered the deepest.)

Hide your voice’s fjords.

Learn the hopelessness
of your past when it means no harm.

That’s all.

You will have memorized where to go
when everything you see grows old.

Rob Cook lives in New York City’s East Village. He is the author of six collections. His recently re-released, Last Window in the Punk Hotel was a Julie Suk Award finalist. He is published in Asheville Poetry Review, Caliban, Fence, A cappella Zoo, Zoland Poetry, Tampa Review, Minnesota Review, Aufgabe, Caketrain, and many others.