Sunday, June 1, 2014

David Howard


            "They fly forgotten, as a dream"
                 --Isaac Watts, Our God, Our Help

Morning’s cornstalk topples into that charcoal-pit
afternoon. She slept beside the river, dreamt
men were happy, their women were not

unhappy. You read this because I have gone
ahead, there are no banks, only water-swirl
and one Amazonian lily, open

so the sky can fall into it night after night.


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