Friday 5 May 2017

1 Poem by Michael H. Brownstein


I’m sorry. Nothing is left.

                        The skipping stone. The two inch blade.
Grass lifting its seed to wind.

Is there nothing to say?

                        A fluid of stone, cascade, a palisade .
Water straining in ice.
                        Tumbleweed, a dessert rock.

Skim off the fat. Let go of the jacket.

                        This far at sea the water
Edible within scale and shell.

So this is how everything comes

To an end?

That is what I wish to know.

Look into the door of this future.
The hallway of portraits and cracks.
Tears in sheetrock and molding.
                        Winter stains in ceiling tiles.
Bite marks of mice and termite.

We are left with possibility.


Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published throughout the small and literary presses. His work has appeared in The Café Review, American Letters and Commentary, Skidrow Penthouse, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, Free Lunch, Meridian Anthology of Contemporary Poetry, The Pacific Review, and others. In addition, he has nine poetry chapbooks including The Shooting Gallery (Samidat Press, 1987), Poems from the Body Bag (Ommation Press, 1988), A Period of Trees (Snark Press, 2004), What Stone Is (Fractal Edge Press, 2005), I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011), Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Press, 2012), The Possibility of Sky and Hell: From My Suicide Book (White Knuckle Press, 2013) and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100 Degrees Outside and Other Poems (Kind of Hurricane Press, 2013). He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).

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