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{a little prayer against annihilation} howie good The better angels of our nature, drunk these last few years on stolen altar wine, fall out of windows and stagger off into the chorus of lights, chanting, Holy, holy, holy, but in a kind of unconvinced way, because it’s not the season yet for U-pick blueberries, the pearl-handled snow about as empathetic as the smoke used to put a hive of bees to sleep, only to dream of brown bears in black leather jackets running amuck in a supermarket in California with the juvenile poetry of zip guns and switch-blades. |
