My Imaginary Invalid
There's a fuzziness to your features as if someone in a great hurry had molded them. You could try starting over, pushing another landscape over the horizon. Of course, it's the same lies everywhere, just told with different words. You suck your cracked and bleeding knuckles. The ritual stretches out for days. Sometimes you wonder whether those weeds you removed were actually flowers.
Howie Good is journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz whose poetry can be found at http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com.