It may not take
        your breath away

the trees the piped in pond
of gray-green water
          as bland as
the idioms
          or
tautologies that inspired
them

        and

as equally flat
as the former fields
         of
tasteless feed corn

but maybe it's not
        beauty we need

just space
         to keep the crickets
 at bay

and oil the hinges
          on the screen door

making it less creaky

Whit Howland © 2020

To this day
I am not

sure if I was
ever really there

so much of it
was just sleep walking

voices taking
at each other
with

lots of TV snow
and

background
noise

but also some
truth

coming through
all that fuzz

Whit Howland © 2020

Ideal

the satisfying
of one's perfect
truth

not the truth

but their perfect
one

an example or proof of
my truth

a house smack

in a cornfield
sandwiched
between

two haystacks

this truth is in the
art

but not so much in
the pudding

Whit Howland © 2020

Do I dare
write

do I have the courage do
I defy

myself to go
beyond

the box and better yet
stomp

and break it down
to its cardboard

nothingness

and to never feel
the compulsion

to stand aghast

you opened up poetry

like I've taken to
cracking words

like eggs
and reconciling

and being satisfied
with the yokey mess

Whit Howland © 2020

But they do

and not for nothing
or to make matters

worse

sunlight always feels
cold

in a breeze

that ruffles feathers
and rustles

leaves

Whit Howland © 2020

such as the casual wayward
glance

across the room
then

eyes locked

like padlocks
to a bridge in Paris


Whit Howland © 2020