A cool, empty dark, Untouchable for the moment. The mourning doves Still, dreaming. A wind Turning in its sleep. Bleached light of a Shoeless dawn slipping in. Madness sealed away In bone, cupped Indifferently in the give Of a cotton pillow.
Bob Brussack has retired after a career teaching law at the University of Georgia. He now divides his time between Athens, Georgia, and the south coast of Ireland. He grew up in New York and in northeast Georgia. His work has appeared in the Naugatuck River Review, Passager Journal, Roanoke Review, and Tishman Review.