Where Will He Go After Winter

I tried preparing a eulogy wrest against the direction of travel. But even starting from the end, the story made no sense. The executive dying of cancer will be a mid-level manager then an immigrant with $215 in cash. That earth: fractured settlement of lava and barren snow remain: fractured settlement of lava and barren snow. There’s always the moment of halting cold air. Breath torn away from narrative. Like hearing a noise at 5 a.m. and: out of habit, thinking: that must be the dog in the hall: realizing you’re not at home. Minute hand: second hand: stopping slowly: microsecond of creaking wood the same as human breath: splintering: the same: as someone bedside pulling a sheet.

J.H. Danville lives and writes in a corner of his house in Michigan. His work has appeared in several issues of Peninsula Poets, where he’s won awards for love poetry, as well as Quarter(ly) Press and Havik. He’s an itinerant member of a few poetry groups around South East Michigan and a spoken word performer.

A Song for J.H.