right hand pointing


  Howie Good



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.



Table of Contents
Main Page