Michael O'Brien



we wait outside the post office depot

You look up at the sky that is full of cirrus clouds and remark, ‘my mind is a white bronco.’ I want to reply something smart but I’m not sure if you are reflecting on some new age shit or some effete philosophy that I can’t possibly understand.
‘Will we pick up some bread from the Kurdish bakery?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’ She replies.

at the treeline
in the curacy of teals
a birthplace



I met my unborn child in a dream and they were a tapir

Spooked by a shadow a g minor takes the long way home. Tramping through the uncut grass upstream. The majestic dream pigs cut carrots into instruments. A current of wheat. Perspiration on the brow.
‘How much further?’ it mutters.
Wisps of light stutter on the clock hands. Discarded vegetable peel sticks to the outside of their boot and they think of a waxing moon.

mexican lime
a puppet string
eats an indigo sky



Michael O’Brien is based in Glasgow Scotland. His work has appeared in Shamrock Haiku, Up Literature, Failed Haiku, Modern Haiku, Blue and Yellow dog, et al. You can follow him on twitter @michaelobrien22
 
 
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