MARK LISTON

Goodbye Eyes

as the stare over my shoulder
in the open eyed mirror
of the bedroom door

and the fire of goodbye eyes

as the cold nudging breeze
on the nape of my neck
at the porch back door

and the creak of the first step

as the slap of bats
milking the night
of ice still miles

and the stare of the stars

as the concrete creep
of my bleak bare feet
on the cracked garden path

and the weak wrist of a pause

as the closing clink
of the rusted gate
on the crooked fence

and the crackle of the last grass

as the freezing farewell whoosh
of passing cars and trucks
on the highway out of town

and the rear mirror glare of your goodbye eyes.