By Howie Good
Not day exactly, not exactly night either,
more like the gray of a long illness,
but if I grieved harder or healed better,
maybe the winter-pinched deer
would come down out of the trees to feed
and my promiscuous hands remember
the other hands they have touched,
the back ways and side streets and tangles,
and maybe columns of snow wouldn’t
build on the branches like new nests
abandoned just this morning by angels.
Good shit man. It made me read your other work which is equally as good.
Lovely, evocative, and even better rereading.