Snow crystals gathering dirt
on the sidewalk underneath the lamp post—
illumination from above,
the snow’s nimbus.
The gathered crystals were once proof that nature is perfect.
The luster of shimmering hexagons gone.
Now plowed to the side—
discarded dull dross,
what will become of them?
I think about the day they fell, when they softly floated
from the great expanse above—
appearing from nowhere,
and how happy the children were when they chased the flakes,
when they stuck out their tongue to taste the flakes,
the crystalline flakes.
Dirty, discarded, lumped
at the base of a lamppost on the corner—
existing in perpetuity,
who will remember the sullied flakes?
Our Ashdust World
The tree tops are no more.
Volcano lava cleanses, like spilt blood, the sins of the world—
the seasons, the oceans, the trees, science—
scorched to black ashdust,
lumps of black islands floating down anguishriver.
The world is in mourning,
veiled by an opaque shroud of white-working-class . . .
their coveted treasure was not in heaven.
If nothing else is to remain,
long live the queen.
Joseph Ellison Brockway is a poet, translator, and Spanish professor working on a Ph.D. in Studies of Literature and Translation. He likes to experiment with language and ideas that explore human psyche, existence, and collective myth. He is currently translating Island: Mythical Coffer by Spanish surrealist Eugenio Fernández Granell, and his writings and poetry have recently been published in LeHigh Valley Vanguard, The Rising Phoenix Review, Dirty Chai, Full of Crow, Reunion: The Dallas Review, and Surreal Poetics. Joseph can be found on Twitter at @JosephEBrockway.