By Michael H. Brownstein
I am exactly like I am.
No water of mistrust here.
Swamps, perhaps.
Perhaps the heavy coil of wood
and bones to go with it,
the shadow of a new day
sun lipped; cloud lined,
the snail of curiosity:
the bee-sting of intellect.
There was no landscaper in your life,
there was no man without a car,
there was just me:
The brake in the stomach feels no pain;
the break in the heart, everything.
White hair of frost,
powder and grey,
the rage of the storm diminished:
patterns and known drunks
a rhapsody in the color you like least.
I am exactly like I am.
No water of mistrust here.
Swamps, perhaps.
Perhaps the heavy coil of wood
and bones to go with it,
the shadow of a new day
sun lipped; cloud lined,
the snail of curiosity:
the bee-sting of intellect.
There was no landscaper in your life,
there was no man without a car,
there was just me:
The brake in the stomach feels no pain;
the break in the heart, everything.
White hair of frost,
powder and grey,
the rage of the storm diminished:
patterns and known drunks
a rhapsody in the color you like least.
Copyright © 2019 by Michael H. Brownstein Michael H. Brownstein’s latest volume of poetry, A Slipknot Into Somewhere Else, was published by Cholla Needles Press in 2018. |
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