Poetry by Michael Hammerle

              stanze CC



​
This Lord

this carpenter,
puts the legs on
the table he has been etching for eons and
will,
it seems,
be turning the wood-
the working of the wood is time.

​



Tarn

Cold so long Spring was also
Winter. This corpse had
saw causeway:

our green light across the col
when the lake was still
froze solid.

Their mission: crawl to smokehouse.
I saw your black arm
reaching out

for God. I feared you
could belong to me.

​
​

Michael Hammerle holds an MFA from the University of Arkansas, Monticello, and a BA in English from the University of Florida. He is the founder of Middle House Review. His work has been published in The Best Small Fictions, Split Lip Magazine, New World Writing, Louisiana Literature, Hobart After Dark, Maudlin House, and elsewhere. His writing has been a finalist for awards from American Short Fiction, Hayden's Ferry Review, and Prime Number Magazine. He lives and writes in Gainesville, Florida. www.middlehousereviews.com/michael-hammerle

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