the porch opened wide to the vista,
gray planks built in 1922 slowly
glazed by miniature ice cubes
foretelling a white to come.
out the window, past the porch,
the wide plains beckon, holding
eyes and tickling moisture
from each orbit corner.
northern blasts slam verticals
horizontal, and only by putting nose
to cold window can human eyesight see
the red outline of the bridge, its blank
interior a huge mouth swallowing
flakes and swirling them backwards
where the great howl
speeds them across the river.
David Hightower’s lyrically expansive meditation on the whims of fate and the unpredictability of the human condition fill the pages of THE HANGING MAN DREAMS with thrilling music and mesmerizing imagery. Hightower’s richly infused voice echoes the e
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Hope I got it right this time..lol!!
Love Tinka
Bobbi