It Can’t Be True

It Can’t Be True
by Michael Brownstein

That we belong to one of the last generations
To See an uncontaminated sky
And walk through enough forest
Stretching for hundreds of square miles
Uncharted and completely surrounded by itself
Holding us because being there
Is a real surprise, vast and everyday
And not just the unspoiled tip
Of an island fenced off by the gov’t.
For one brief clumsy weekend
Fucking away from the glare of the city’s
Shiny hallucination

1 thought on “It Can’t Be True

  1. Michael allows us a glimpse of a once unpolluted world of sky
    now in rapid spoliation and rapine emerging from a city poet’s intoxicated yet astute language.

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