Sleeping With the Lights onSleeping With the Lights on
Let’s say, for argument’s sake,
that love is a longer version of solace,
a lake of snow
with an immeasurable hat size,
somewhere where the air
doesn’t ache so much
and old cell phones aren’t piled
as high as the trees yet,
and let’s say you and I go there
and take bets from the shore birds
on the hour and manner of the next death
and the next,
and when we’re tired of pretending
to be astute, let’s say we lie down
and sleep like seeds or numerous pebbles,
but with the lights on, and we do,
oh, we do.
[...] dead animals There is a great new poem by Howie Good up at Slingshot. Read [...]