right hand pointing

 

     
  Howie Good

Heretic

 

 
Count backwards
from the fat shadow of the zeppelin
crawling over the upturned faces,
and the scene erases itself like snow,
even the moaning crowd,
their eyes as bottomless as zeroes
and nearly as solemn.
Years later, in some Rust Belt city,
the day burns like a heretic,
streets with number names wavering
in the censorious heat and smoke.
Iím there, too, a stoned smile on my lips,
a broken handle in my hand.


 

 

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