More Poetry
Harold Whit Williams
Something went wrong beside the dry creek.
A late winter sky reborn in its own image.
The neighbor’s radio buzz, the four-lane drone,
Etcetera. Hallelujah. I have my soul pressed up
Against the cracked living room window,
Seeking out that shaggy buffalo vibe.
I’ve made friends here in the temporal world.
I’ve heard ghosts down inside the stereo.
The past is not your friend, somebody sang,
The future not your enemy. And my hair
And my fingernails of late have grown longer.
There’s a tang of prairie upon my tongue.