The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

This day is lovely for water to fall.

At four forty-four, I felt truly good
And well, watching my checkmate in two moves
On endless loop, as calls that sounded like rough
Parodies of birdsong rose over loud

Ululations' crowds. Then, borborygmus
Out of monstrous maw shook walls; colour leached
From face; eyes rose wild stucco. (Alexa
Will wild dogs devour my flesh?) Menu

Tonight is slim: Sweaty, muscled framers
That sink nails with one hit; wall clocks/wool cocks.
I did not notice Polonius's
Dernier cri. Cost of revelation is

Sin computed from still lives, mort d'auteur
Sliced into three thirds, Michael as window
Reflecting mystical wastrels, spiders
Whose webs have come undone on sufferance.

Today it was strawberries. Yesterday,
It was sand. We're almost out of woods when
Tree branch brushes strand from your face; owl turns
Her gimbal head. You are safe; I eat fruit.

I look forward to river. You stifle
Laugh. I buy rifle. And meanwhile, all this
Time, water erases sin, erodes rock.
In studio of Hieronymus Cock,

Artist studies ruination, observes
Divine geometry of water drop,
Lets it gather strength and fall. Scientist
Paints lone lady floating on bobbing skiff.

Bloodshed will begin when you fold towels,
Doting on dog. Love raises hand and, when
Lover flinches, cymbals clash; cymbals crash.
Their cingerie must fall into cacophone.

And still.

Lovely is water for this fall to day.