That winter I walked and walked through the frozen, dreary streets as if I might outwalk my sadness. I missed you and your gentle strokes, your iridescent glance. What we once said would last forever lay toppled inside us. I searched everywhere there was to search, but had to settle for the knowledge that geologists who don’t predict a deadly earthquake aren’t killers.

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All proceeds from Howie Good’s latest book of poetry, Fugitive Pieces (Right Hand Press), go to the Food Bank of the Hudson Valley. Visit Right Hand Pointing Books to learn more.