SUN & MOON - howie good


howie good

It’s cold even for January. There’s no one else on the path. The backs of houses hidden the rest of the year are visible through the leafless trees. I feel like I’m looking at something I shouldn’t. Off in the distance a dog begins barking. Snow patchily covers the ruins of a garden the town planted in memory of the dead children, a brother and sister. The most mysterious thing, I read somewhere, is a fact clearly stated. The sun will shine for another six billion years.

The moon enters in a dark overcoat. It’s possible to see the suicide in people’s faces, the slope of their shoulders, the way their clothing is worn, their gait. There are days – many, in fact – fingers drum impatiently on the roof. The stairs that lead up also lead down to an iron bed, rumpled sheets, a photograph of insomnia. And always the same ending. I’m hunched over, tightening a screw with the edge of a dime. It does a bad job.