Poetry By Michael Young

       David Geitgey Sierralupe CC




THE HUM

Night after night, by three 
quarter lanterns of ivy and moon
cracked sidewalk, the mid-city 
march to the parking garage 
on N Lamar. Careful first to check 
for Executive Patrol, then climb.
Enter the crackling skyline, lit 
with amphetamine mist 
from below, lit until it burns the eyes 
like a tungsten wire. 

The hum (noun):
Sum of all cricketsong. Late flights 
into Austin-Bergstrom. Televisions in high
apartments and the quiet crush 
of university radio. A call note
lost inside the metal of a violet crown.

The hum (verb):
To drag your tongue 
across the sky until 
your hands go numb. To occupy 
the clouds over Guadalupe 
where the koan of Om 
unfolds 
and refolds 
like origami, here 
becoming the coo of pigeons 
chanting humee hum, brahm hum.

The hum (object):
To send paper airplanes off
by the hundreds
toward the intramural fields, 
wreathed now in their sky-
cloak of junk light and laughter. 
Your friends are out there, 
somewhere, 
waiting. 

The hum (infinitive):
The unbearable weight of paper 
coming to rest on the Augustine grass.

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Michael Young is a founding editor of the journal Rust & Moth. He spends his days in Colorado and his nights sleepwalking the Texas hill country. His poems have been published in Burningword, Daphne Magazine, and District Lit, among others.