*Featured image courtesy of Kie-ker on Unsplash* A Grove Near Maggie Daley Park Don’t dream the day is still in front of us. all light in the grove; dead grass like sand all over the threadbare grounds, this hollowed clearing in the urban forest, ancient orchard obstructs the concrete sky. The Man who sits across the grounds has hands like a prophet, they are massive and awash in sunlight. twice, He kneels down into the sandpaper grass, throws His hands together toward the sky, and cries out. begs. wails. my shoulders shake out of reverence or fear. twice, He resumes reading when there is no apparent answer, licks His thumb and turns the page with a grin I am trying to stomach. my bare feet hold the dirt in some old form of offering. it…
3 Poems by Michael Bruebach
