poem index

poet

Joel Brouwer

by this poet

poem
The music on TV turned gloomy. Sharks,
she said, and sure enough. A blunt snout,
jumbled cemetery of teeth, and quick black
depthless eye thrashed the screen. Coffee
and oranges made the morning acidic.
She said, the cello is the instrument
of the inevitable. White clouds
of jasmine devoured a trellis. He said,
poem
The Stoli bottle's frost melts to brilliance where I press my 
fingers. Evidence. Proof I'm here, drunk in your lamplit kitchen, 
breathing up your rented air, no intention of leaving. Our lust
squats blunt as a brick on the table between us. We're low on
vocabulary. We're vodkaquiet. Vodkadeliquescent.