The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

the sound of cars
on granville cloverleaf

is soothing
like the sound of surf at night

(what silly word this  surf
more apropos

pribòi
that is  the beating of the shore


back in the bedroom
you flicked off the light

here in the office
I have turned a page

to write
about my quiet disbelief


your claim that
simply put you can't recall

the painful words you told me
yesternight