Emily Brochin

The End of Things
A tree is a memory of seed,
the shadow of music is sighing.
War makes all sound now.
The only time you hear song is in the dark when you’ve wandered drunk from the pack,
howling at the moon like a runt cub forbidden milk.
Wondering why, of all instants the notes should squeeze themselves from tin noisemakers
and pursed lips. At moments, when the fire pops,
you can feel the actual beings; you can hear the actual tune;
you can see a bomb as it falls.