Rainbow

The rain last evening came late.

Fog covered the mountains.

I was in the studio, talking on the phone with a poet in California. I asked if he was still writing poems.

Once in a great while, he said.

Read me something, I said.

ROBIN WILLIAMS

Robin Williams
is
dead.

Not funny.

That's a good poem, I said, and dark.

Pretty soon we were done talking.

I closed up the studio.

When I stepped outside the sun was shining on the other side of the great valley.

I saw the rainbow. It looked like nothing I'd ever seen. It looked like a poem by Michael Hannon. It was lit by my own darkness.