THE NEW WAR MACHINE

by Michael H. Brownstein

Good bleeds anger through us,

One long paragraph of static,

Run on sentences. So many

Words, letters, litter,

Vowels with silent sounds.

Mercy is a word after the killing

Is done; prayer, the wounding of earth;

And one day we forget

Our ancestors. I am a happy man.

It is you who has the problem.

SNOW

by Michael H. Brownstein

The soft lust of snow,
White imprints against the trees,
Diamond juice, clean, responsible,
And when the great melt comes,
We lean here against the rain,
A grand mist gathering into us
Like breath, like yellow light
At the corner, each tick
Another stream to the sea,
Flickers of color in fields of cloud.