The Muse

(An International Journal of Poetry)

Volume-1                                              december-2011                                                    Number-2






                         by Howie Good

I study my reflection in the window of the butcher. The trains that leave the city empty return empty as well. Does the sound of sobbing mean what I think it does? People who were born here exchange knowing glances. Tomorrow’s paper may carry news of a terrible accident. For now, it’s night and raining, and somewhere lovers are blowing smoke rings into the dark. 


                        by Howie Good


Why dance cheek to cheek to Sinatra? We could be prowling the Metro, students of the gypsy pickpockets of Paris, or picking the wild raspberries out back that proclaim the importance of being plump and red and dangly. 


Everything we started together is unfinished, perhaps unfinishable. In unnaturally bright light, I fuss over commas, how objects connect or whether they even should. You stand in the living room and look toward the mountain. They told us when we were kids to keep away from windows in the event of attack. 


You’re left with yourself, scorch marks of extraordinary complexity, after the faceless man from last night’s dream, smiling apologetically, showed up at the door with a garbled message for you, something about the walls of the forest also being in flames.