Now that I’m seventy,
night files in so quickly
it seems time itself has
sped up. To anyone with
a healthy imagination,
the moon might look like
a silver button dangling
on a loose thread, and not,
as it does to me, a cracked,
and weathered skull. God!
I’ve thoughts I wish I never
had – with sharp little teeth
and murderous claws and
the subtle smell of blood.
Howie Good is the author most recently of the poetry collection Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).
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