Sometimes the only wind I can feel
is a howler churning inside me.

I lean to the left, then the right,
fall flattened to the floor.

It seems impossible
that nothing in this room

has been moved
by such a storm but it’s true.

It’s as still as a ghost
in here. Meanwhile I’m shaking, 

shattering within.  Every nerve
waving like grass, 

blood white-capped and frothing, 
so loud I can’t think,

can’t pull a single word out of my lungs,
yet you sit there and mouth the usual,

that one must suffer for art,
that this will be material

for me. All I can do
is breathe 
and try to lie low enough 

to let the twister pass,
and you’re saying this. Believe me

when I say I don’t want the poem
that’s in here with me, friend;

I don’t want this poem
at all.


About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

4 responses to “Howler

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