The Poetry of
Michael G. Khmelnitsky

Recalling the chaos of two nights ago—
the motor in the dog's insatiable throat,

the fire that eats chickenbones, pizzabox
—I enter it. Age brings gratitude, if not grace,

I think, I would be much happier a river.
One might almost be forgiven by this

warbling sound that fills the branches, foams in the pits.
Spring flows. The flowers do their flower things.


I walk through the scene of the crime, one thousand
mirrors made in earth by errant feet. I had a dream

like this, or maybe now I'm dreaming sunset's ruddy
cheeks that poke through branch and twig.

It is a flashlight (and a knife!) in my pocket.
I am happy to see you. I smile and write

the directions to the main gate on your bare back
with my digit. I frown at the little girl who thinks


she was stolen away from her home, wish courage
to the little boy who wishes for himself to be taken

away from all this, transformed, saved, and so he shall be.
I caress those feet that knead the earth, pass fingers over

severed root and trunk. Why do you turn away your countenance?
No, I'm not tired. No, not drunk. Hairline still good, I'm told,

though thinning visibly are the sharp chirps in call
and response before dark. Are you there? I'm here.


                                                        Are you there?
I'm here.

             I'm here!
             I'm here! I'm here!

I'm here, I think. I'm almost done writing you
out of my life. Every star in this sky is an airplane

or a satellite. I return to the lot lit by sodium light.