David Higdon
Ghosts don’t cross
oceans, fall in holy wells,
or fly inverted crosses.
Pale shades shake
fists, chant, gather under
porches strumming
the cape. Streets light mimicries.
Sky and water. Stranger
dangers —the horizon
unglued. Fields
of indigo crushed
in basins of lye.
They harp and bewitch,
chase dogs to marks—
baying collapse decline.
Blue glass hangs like angels
in oak branches
to bottle the boo hags.
***
David Higdon lives with his family in Louisville, KY. He earned his BFA from Watkins College of Art and Design and is employed as a creative director. He is currently working on a collection of poetry and a novel.