"Maybe thanks / For separating thoughts from what one thinks."
Again with lightning bugs and blooms. The grass
A resurrected green that dusk deepens,
Enhances even. Blinking, blinking no less
Realistic as mushroom trips, sci-fi zines.
The bedroom window cracked, my lover's breath
Upon my throat, and Coltrane keening, shrieking
From down the hall. It's either this or death?
A heaven. Hell. Am I to lay here begging
Forgiveness of sins? And just what sins are those
But ones of survival? Nature; nurture. Science
Is on my side for sure, but cannot close
The deal, blast one past the outfield fence.
So thanks, I guess, for nothing. Maybe thanks
For separating thoughts from what one thinks.
Harold Whit Williams is a prize-winning poet and longtime guitarist for the indie rock band Cotton Mather. He is the recipient of the 2020 FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize, the Mississippi Review Poetry Prize, and the Robert Phillips Poetry Chapbook Prize. The author of five books of poetry, Williams lives in Austin, Texas where he records lo-fi music as Daily Worker and catalogs the KUT Collection for the University of Texas Libraries. A Rain Ancestral is his sixth book of poems, but the first released by San Antonio Review Press.