Cleaning, 48X60, John Brosio
“I feel like spider-webs are attacking me.”
My stomach gurgled. I don’t know why.
You could feel mortars billowing through flesh-jungles
from Fort Lewis like bright thunder,
rehearsing for The End of Days.
Neo-Nazis were planning to gather at the capital on the day before the 4th of July.
Would they serve refreshments? Hold newborns in their arms?
The sun will be spilling everywhere it can.
We sat on the patio smoking cigarettes, surrounded by crowds of leaves.
Bullfrogs groaned ancient propaganda from lily pads regenerating
in the beaver pond. They said all they could.
I wasn’t sure if I loved you.