Hain’t No Fixing It

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.