Peremptory Signs Of Incipient Crisis

By Howie Good I raise my hand in greeting, but what looks like a person coming toward me isn’t. The clock is frozen at ten past. Individual faces have become as indistinguishable as raindrops. In a corner, a child chews on slivers of glass. The leaves when it rains make a noise like applause.

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Here Begins the Work of Darkness

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 [...]

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