You’re whichever tree sheds its leaves first. The terrible part isn’t how cold it gets. It’s how much you tremble. Howie Good’s latest poetr...

I. Shadow of a mill heavy on roadside Nearby a dam spits  water flecked with cigarette butts Motorcycles rattle disappear behind gridded ran...

I was told he was gone by his son. Remembering his frown, like a ballast of railway line. Firm as a cliff edge. He was ex army. Bringing wit...

Near the riverbank where we Buried her, I light a candle And wait, patient as a hunter Detecting what the beast will do In the next moment. ...

          To my mother Shoshanna, 1893–1994 Your skin is stretched taut on concave bone, worn thin by ninety-nine years of battle with wind...

          To my mother, Shoshanna, 1893–1994 After all these years without you, your bed still remains untouched. The white goose down quil...

A song that you left for me on a mix tape – somewhere around ’95. Today, a cover; this softer voice singing the same words to a slower tune ...

Whenever I walk into the living room, a host of silent voices call to me -- the footstool, sofas, coffee table, pebbles, candlestick, ca...

The way that dusk defeats us, divides us. There is a young man in the apartment complex across the street who has been practicing all day, h...

tell enough stories or take enough pills or write enough poems can't stop the helicopters from landing nightly in my dreams taking me ba...

Somewhere on the edge of town, sirens woo-who, woo-who, woo-who, inspiring dread even at this distance, as I come back from walking Dewey ca...

A brief flash of blue and brown, as wings fold their fluttering feather -- a jay has settled itself in a fork of the chestnut's leafle...

I am the age of youthful presidents, decrepit models and fading athletes, as well as others, nondescript throughout the day: the tired waitr...

There were plates and bowls, crockery with little yellow and blue daisies on them. Every week, IGA had a different piece. They gave out sta...

The miniature rose bush shed its paper thin pink petals & delicate lime green leaves with the first kiss of November frost. Against all...

          (after the painting by Phillip Guston) In the morning when the birds begin their dawn chatter and conversations with the light a...

there are no warm childhood moments to savor when the clouds wax nostalgia. it was all barbed wire misunderstanding and mutual intransigence...

uncle denny worked at a factory in bell plaine. he watched nascar on tv and golfed when he could. i never saw him angry or heard him talk si...

Backs to the wind we watch our young granddaughters swing the same swings we bailed out of as little girls, skinning our knees, but not cryi...

Too late for me to say to my terminally ill                          friends, I hope you feel better soon, when I know                     ...