J.S. Westbrook

Three Poems

Thoughts of a Dry Brain in a Dry Season

Noon is my darkest hour
for it absolves me of my shadow.
Now to water the orchids
and straighten the postures

of dolls in seaside rooms.
The protagonist won’t not
wake from the coma. No man
is an island but he can be

stranded on one. As is nature’s
custom, the leaves applaud
throughout the wind’s performance,
not before or after, as words,

words, words swirl and natter
overhead, moving exactly
at the speed of thought,
with its nervous saccades.

Try as I might, I can’t escape
having the time of my life.
The key sinks its teeth in the hole
and the door falls to pieces.


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