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Swans On The Pond


The silent way
they glided
side by side,

I couldn’t decide
which one
was the lover,

which one
the beloved.  

Wherever you went,
a white attic room
with one small window followed.

The dimwits and dipshits
knew your name,
but only I knew your location,

and that afterward
we’d fall asleep,
sometimes entwined.

My sadness grows fatter
than a circle
when we make love,

a backyard telescope,

just like spring
but imbued
with the red of fall.

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About Howie Good

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Howie Good resides in the vortex of a bad karma tornado.


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