by Emily Brown
this makes a trick of the eye when a ball appears to be rolling up but not down,
as it pulls away, as the cars pull away in their turning revolutions,
who will not worship anymore feeling unaccepted at their meetings
who ceded a lot of ground through exhaustion.
I have no need of mushrooms. I don’t like how they chew.
I’m in the middle of my bedroom with my computer on my knees.
the way it sifts and sieves instead melting ore,
the way it sweeps out.
where little growing things meet great growing things,
where they look up into the dark trees
spat on by pieces of yellow and gold
I don’t want you to know about it.
It shouldn’t belong to anyone, anyone.
that I know about it, why do I mention it at all?
even to hear about something like this is a gift
to say you may piece it together in the brain.
Emily Brown is a Californian songwriter and poet and is currently an MFA student at Mills College in Oakland. Her poetry has been included in BlazeVOX and the Provo Orem Word.
