by Michael Brett

All the London faxes arrive in the morning, before
The daily shelling begins.
The bombardment has a kind of timetable
As the enemy gunners get drunk every night
And sleep in late.

We cannot see the city burning.
We move between the burning blocks
Like bullets in slow motion- with casualty lists
And press releases.
Our conversations are the slowed-down sound
Of friction in the air, explosions
And Serbo-Croatian is now a language that
Hee-haws of ambulances and sirens.

I get home to open the day's death threats:

Fear is a kind of odd ballerina who pirouettes
On the zigzag crests of smoke and shell bursts.
The heart becomes the left hand part of some
Weird organ piece that loops in a studio;
Progressive music of some kind.

Copyright © 2013 - Michael Brett
Published: 5/16/13   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem