Jay Brecker

The movement of weeds hides a history, deaths
of flowers.
Bricks are molded, fired, moved; the factory
undone melts
into the stream the way fish slip through our hands,
yet a film
remains, a gesture; scars where lightning struck
innocent
birds, where fox-holed grunts held up last embers,
like the light
on Monet’s haystacks freed from the surface
ripples those
canvases, pulses out, passes ponds, clouds,
the leveled
fields, unwinding the orders of the night.

—

Jay Brecker works in southern California. Not a graduate of a writing program, he has ties to writers from these programs, and/or like him, field-hands of workshops and extension classes. His poems appeared in I-70 Review, RHINO Poetry, New Mexico Review, OVS Magazine, Bird’s Thumb and the anthology Unsheathed (October 2019).