Cannonballs and Flowers
Howie Good
The region was known for its graveyards.
I wondered why we were there,
night noodling on the piano,
the moon looking slightly Chinese.
A torch-lit lynch mob passed
beneath the hotel windows.
What couldn’t be seen in summer
because of the leaves could be seen now.
Her hair was the color of Kentucky bourbon;
her eyes, the color of a coal fire at sea.