Michael Brosky

Could you hear the whisper
At silent prayer during mass?
Perhaps a glimpse of shadow
Or a little chill that passed?
...

Winter fires flare in your eyes
Dance of light up from your aquatic heart
So that the shadows and darkness depart
To faint whale song and dolphin sighs
...

Something is up there above the clouds
Some kind of motion from the lost
Radio chants and eldritch sounds
Only the angels know the cost
...

All of the black sheep have herded their horns
All of the sad angels have spoken with tongues of thorns
Creep up that lonely chimney, been awhile
Open every tome across the table and tile
...

Do you remember walking along the sea wall of the battery?
The sun made the stones feel warm as those elegant homes watched us stroll by
A ship of sails floated silently past adding to my flattery
A mermaid broke the sparkling water or was it a trick of the eye?
...

Sometimes the leaves speak to me
When the wind is right and the world is quiet
They whisper how I should be a better man
How I should clean up my act and live better
...

A dry wind blows through the stones of Mission Concepcion
A ghost of a bell tolls; a high hawk screeches her reply
Tumbleweeds and sounds such as these will make you feel alone
Written on scattered broken stones, our past will codify
...

I am swallowed by a Klein Bottle
Everything and nothing is on the surface
To the shrill chuckle of a tree-creeping bird
It laughs at in and out and up and down
...

They all fall down to a chemical chance
The ceiling fan shadow by the night light is still
The oar dips, yet again, and the droplets splash, spill
No tacamahac for tonight's pelt plans
...

She was crossing the cape of fears, driving eighty-five
Just after a new moon before the coming sunrise
Leaving a little and a lot behind her taillights
See it fall into those hungry waters still alive
...

Raindrops coming down on the green births
And a thousand rushing rivers passing by
You could hear the peace curtain falling
Over the dry and thirsty disbelievers
...

Voices of the dead daughter
Echo from uncanny molds
Myths
Bliss
...

They fly to these stones, wind upon wind
Prevails in a howling, Fenris act
As a ravenous glutton itself
They arrive here to suck embryos
...

Treasures born each salty pulse
The bright lunar brain commands;
Each breath, ornate gifts from vaults
In clusters on fine wet sands.
...

It is the smaller things that make up this world
And you never know when you will wake up
And the day will make it a little smaller
The sunset a little longer
...

Hear wave after wave
Lap at Gorham's Cave
Much in the same way
As back in the day
...

Where is that window I can stare through, where no one will stare back?
Where is that light I can dwell by where the crows will not descend?
As I turn over stones and reel in disgust,
I try to remember my name
...

I think I know now
What Conrad Aiken meant
When he spoke of
The brute step of God
...

Winter saints shine like asphalt stars
They scrape as dried, brown leaves in the breeze
Soft as a faraway sun upon the bare and dormant
Harsh and woeful prayers on a midnight freeze
...

The night is sweet and cold
Feel the blanket, seek the fold
Sunless, screaming, dreaming sold
Investigate
...