The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

Here, birds sing through house,
Loneliness slinks in adjoining rooms.

Benoît presses on lids; chessfields abound.
Out by market, three spirits sit.


One asks questions of each.
One has Začarovaný kruh stamped on their nape.

One can but fathom such feral twine,
Force majeure on the tongue—has he but lived?


He conjures: Per capita deaths, number of,
Falls that like hearths spring rivulets,

Prefigurations of truth, smeared on frontal
Wide daubs of Prussian blue.


It is wild time in head.
He decides: "I'll do anything to fight heart!"

But no. This generator's hum is far too loud.
Were he safe solace of fast-cooling shroud…


Why do mirrors lie?
Kchik-chuk of Kelly's beercan next door

Reminds him of seasons of life,
Days of derangement interleaved with


Hours of glory. Tab lifts athwart rivet,
Nose punctures line, liquid fizzes.

You can taste the dark froth when—
Mind rings doorbell, runs off.