Tuesday, February 10, 2015

A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein

4 AM


Almost a day before I have to go to work.
Where will I be in the realm of quiet?
You know and you know and you know.


4 AM: We did not hear the warning sirens.

5 AM: We did not hear the all clear.

6 AM: We did not hear.

7 AM  7 AM 7 AM 7 AM 7 AM

and three hours later,
the great walnut in the yard
broke itself from its bones, leaned
heavily into the building to the left.
The old barn was gone.


The foundation cracked into brickwork.
The foundation cracked into summary.


Three months earlier
the wind
no longer knew the way

Michael H. Brownstein has been widely published.  His latest works, Firestorm:  A Rendering of Torah (Camel Saloon Books on Blogs) and The Katy Trail, Mid-Missouri, 100F Outside and other poems (Barometric Pressures -- A Kind of a Hurricane Press).  His work has appeared in The Cafe Review, American Letters and Commentary, Xavier Review, Hotel Amerika, 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) and I Was a Teacher Once (Ten Page Press, 2011).  He is the editor of First Poems from Viet Nam (2011).

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