Three Poems | Charles Brownson

Three Poems

Charles Brownson

Down In the River

Down in the river the fish are making a list of what to pack for the trip.

The authentic fish, the old ones in the mist, came this way.

The way goes up the river’s lift and into the secret trees where the once fish live,

those old ones who can only teach the wisdom of the undrawn breath and knowledge of inchoate wish.

Cold coffee

Cold coffee in the microwave, half a once-frozen bagel.

Five a.m. There are shrubs needing to go into the ground to hide their roots from the sun.

The finches are awake, breakfasting on thistle seeds. Five a.m. There are holes dug, holes pulled out of the dry ground, waiting, in which to bury the sun.

Five a.m. Feral cats wait, hoping to steal a bird, as I hope to steal the sun’s breakfast and hide myself as in that other story. I don’t know how it ends, but then

nobody does. Meanwhile there are bushes unburied, birds unfed, a pot of coffee to make. Black, bitter, without sugar. Sugar poisonous as sunshine.

The Great Wheel turns, driving the engines which in their turn light a little sun in my kitchen at five a.m. With a cold bagel I wait, wondering what to do next.

A shopping list

for my confinement, to deal with all of you

a blanket Ford Prefect an honest character Montaigne virtu Machiavelli a gate Wu Men’s on 48th obscurity R Chandler under cover of darkness Scarbo, on sale at Daedalus a burden Vishnu despair Kierkegaard’ 2 for one with coupon at Dalek’s new notebook widely available a chocolate confession