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.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
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Blog Archive
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2010
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January
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- Back Home
- AFTER THE HOUSE OF GHOSTS
- The Desert
- On Roads Beyond Hell
- What Children Know
- Like Dead Rabbits Burning on the End of a Cigarette
- bee of good cheer
- Timeprints
- $11.37
- Breath
- McDonald’s Job Interview
- on the day Robert Parker died
- Snow Bound
- one over the left shoulder
- How He Became A Ghost
- SNOW
- ANN FRANKING IT
- JACK
- Secrets
- REDOUBT
- Concussion
- anthem
- My 7th grade French Teacher
- AT THE EDGE
- dried food, weapons
- walking tape recorders
- IN THIS HOUSE WHERE THE PHONE RINGS RARELY
- 'Everyday Asymptote'
- BECAUSE I WAS NEVER
- THE E MAIL PHOTO OF COVE POINT
- Edge Lyric # 6
- This Broken Doorstep
- Desperados
- Rumba Man
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January
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