Andrew Brenza

4 poems

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Gossamer 16


o asshole sun
these meadows are mind-fucks
in wind-logic, the white death
word-blossomed to your renditions
of the mirror-home

mind-field, o asshole sun, mine
feels like minefield:
the flowers of a hogshead of afterthought
or pomegranates on the windowsill
or the sound of planes, always the sound
of planes overhead

like once more, o dangling aftermath
to its another, like nothing once more.

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Gossamer 17


threadlings a-
wander

the sun-riddling
bracket

of the eye
kept round your neck,

the forested
hazes

of aftermath
contouring the fields:

one leaf
once more
one petal more

the shape of pronouns
at water's edge
once more.

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Gossamer 18


flit-tock and blip-blue rhythms of data hibernation

baby's breath like a broth in the background

lightening the lightning

sight through its sleeve of drenched demarcations

only after it's past, its past

a crystal froth beyond the terrible neutrality of things

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Gossamer 22


it's hurt-sleeved ambulations of a boy stringing on his way the rubbling anywhere

it's throbbing ghost diaphonous strip and maul through grocery store parking lot anywhere

it's recollection scrim throbbing over anytime deserted school zone rubble anywhere

it's deserted rubble armor throbbing scrim and sob anywhere

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return to sawbuck 4.1

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Andrew Brenza's work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Shampoo, The Scrambler, Chronogram and Nuthouse Magazine. He lives and writes in Philadelphia, PA, with his wife and son.