by Sarah Brindell

Working man standing
next to the plane
sun stained
I can see him
out the window
wondering what he
mighta been
as he loads the baggage
and takes a
small break
to stare
at the horizon
in the distance
it says:
“South San Francisco International”
written in perfect
white letters
on the side of the hill
I wonder if this
particular desecration
of the earth would be
considered graffiti
to an unassuming alien
who was just
passing through
on his way
to another dimension

by Sarah Brindell

The surface of the earth

is not smooth

there are bumps and crevasses,

lumps and fault lines,

peaks, caverns

stark deserts, ample foliage,

oceans lapping up residue

from fallen sky scrapers

scattered candy wrappers,

and roadways so randomly dispersed

without pause for symmetry,

or artistic merit

Down in the muck and sweat

of all this defective beauty,

we tangle together,

climbing the walls

of our own limbs and blankets,

ripe and pungent

as the damp night

cocoons around us

surging and rooted

in a constant rotation

by Sarah Brindell

Your hands
Grace the piano keys
Like flower stems
Holding the sacred space
Between silence and sound
Fingers tipped like petals,
budding into bloom
I hear the dissonance unfurl
Sometimes slowed by
lack of knowledge
You stop and start in fits
Of slight frustration, but still onward
You tread, a steady motion
Not too fast
“No rushing,” I say
But you are completely lost
in the harmony
unfolding so effortlessly
As if Bach had intended
Just that, no thinking
Only emotion, ethereal oneness
You honor the register
Of the pitches
in the woods of the repetition
But back again
Onto the suspension and final cadence
You glance at me like an imp,
As if to almost gloat
At your feeble attempt
At the masterpiece
Still alive after hundreds of years
I can almost hear Bach laugh out loud
at our mere mortal love