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
laughing.
DUST
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!
ReplyDeleteGreat images!
ReplyDeleteThanks!
ReplyDelete