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Gary McDowell
I'd Rather Not
The sky is black. It means everything
it cannot say. It is night.
Headlight beams flash across my patio
but the car that cast them turns down
another street. There is balance.
The coals rest white and spent:
the art of hot. Marshmallows do not melt
so much as they weep.
A neighbor's windsock reminds me
I am in Ohio: winds from the West.
Trees sway and my fingers stick together.
On this night, my watch reads midnight
twice in the purple belly of land and land.
about Gary McDowell
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