Poem
by Howard Good • Photo by Karen Slagle
 Furtive glances and whispers, bare, bereft trees, unfaithful gods lolling about a galaxy of tinfoil stars, the dead from the newspaper receding into white space while strangers stare at their inscrutable backs, on my machine a voice I don’t recognize announcing a new age, though horses scream, and it’s night, and the creek overflows as with sudden tears. |