Archive for February 26th, 2010

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.

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