No one uses searchlights unless you’re missing,
as in dark river gone, as in boats and ropes.
Love isn’t dynamite, or even a pan flute.
More like cigarettes in bed, half-moon in a window,
darling fast asleep.
And sure, sometimes I end up at The Last Chance,
throwing down black pints and shots of Jamie,
but I wish nothing but the best for you, despite
snakebites and broken glass.
We were barefoot, and strong, but durably wrong.
Michael Dwayne Smith haunts many literary houses, including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Third Wednesday, Gargoyle, Chiron Review, Monkeybicycle, and Heavy Feather Review. Author of four books, recipient of the Hinderaker Prize for poetry, the Polonsky Prize for fiction, and a multiple-time Pushcart Prize/Best of the Net nominee, he lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued horses. His latest full-length collection hopes to go from apparition to publication in 2024.
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