Where have the lightning bugs gone and a personal trainer is not an option
A muscle-bound sky
cloud shot, blood worn
and my friend with rabid eyes,
a slur of lips,
chews fresh sugar cane
with perfect teeth.
Some of the time he speaks for the two of us,
other times he is a very private man.
In the distance
the slow flex of a grand summer storm
winding towards us
Cloud light and a red algae sky.
the dawn of dusk.
Who am I to look out this window
Thick as the narrow width of a path by the door?
Make me safe.
Curdle me into your cottage cheese world,
heated bottled water warm,
wool stocking radiator heat warm.
Shadows do exactly what they are supposed to
as do suns, as does this curve,
just an ounce of smile, an inch
of weight, the musky odour after.
THE WAY PEARLS ARE FORMED
The light of wisdom, a pearl,
moonlight slipping onto a salt water pond, oysters
freeing themselves from stony homes
to float free within underwater winds
until they reach the surface to swallow the moon.
There are seams within a clasp of shell,
burrs and pebbles, unjust injury,
and the burn of moonlight swallowed whole
until they, like me, envelope every internal wound
imagined or real into the bright lustre of moons.
Michael H. Brownstein's latest volumes of poetry, A Slipknot to Somewhere Else (2018) and How Do We Create Love (2019) were both published by Cholla Needles Press.
Very vivid poems!ReplyDelete