Poem About Nothing

by John Brehm

The only thing happening

this early hour is nothing:

people sleeping, the weight

of their unconsciousness

darkening the air, loading

the clouds with dreamstuff;

a crow, barely visible, like

a piece of the night itself

broken off, given wings

and a raw voice, quiet now,

saying nothing, an emissary

of silence; a stack of books

on the side of my desk, one

thin volume standing tentlike

on top of the others,

a thing one is not supposed

to do with books, according

to my father-in-law, asleep

down the hall. All those poems,

alive beneath their covers,

little fires of consciousness

still burning, waiting

for a mind to fan the flames.

Long after / the call to prayer /

the bell rope swaying.

Warmth and light are what

I want from poems, quiet

from morning, sound advice

from a father-in-law, even if

I don’t follow it.

From Just This: New and Selected Poems, New York: Wisdom Publications, 2026, pages 16–17. Italicized haiku is by Steve Sanfield, from No Other Business Here with John Brandi.