Poetry

Do You Die in the Water, When You Hit the Water, or During the Fall?

The noise of morning rises with the cream of dawn:

it is I who opens the gate to Samael,

it is I who finds window glass wanting,

it is I who no longer wishes to wait,

it is I who seek entrance with Thyone.

 

Can no one help?

Can no one see?

Why is it I am left?

 

This is how cream degrades in heat,

how milk curdles into sour frowns,

how we are taken away from those we seek.

 

No matter. I find a fog within fog,

a pathway of crows

swimming birds,

the silver outline of tarpons

a crease in water.

 

                                                                         ~ Michael H. Brownstein

                                                                               Jefferson City, United States

Note: for John Barryman

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