Keith Higginbotham



I heard the herd away the everything.

You went to the noise
river. You were a snowfall

Hard those boys, with
                them, nothing but.
Would you, you know – she did
                those hands and didn’t
                breathe your
afternoon anyway away.

In a boy-god way, giving out
of depending on how
                you listened to the tree
claws, I rode
a runaway spunk.

Dry, flat bread eyes
                shut about my digestion: stay
                around the rolled
drills. Maybe we too had
a wool vermouth.

You swarmed the ceiling done, snow-
white snow halfway to the shot-
                gun rumble – you turned
the train to see.

Breadcrumb Fields

breadcrumb fields’

stars cling above plucked

trees rain the has
been hand


Glass Face

Branches that over
lookout the wash
river hint shut citizens of

sync map. The water is on corrugated fire
with crevices harvesting
the reverse-forward

behind brigade. I’ve cryptogrammed
the wind and unrolled the bear
covering morning’s juice in
broken Dutch. You have a
glass face.

Stars are living out of
just midnight green
breakfast leavings. The whole
page zephyrs


grandfathers the prairie.


The microscopic an:
muse proboscides through


We property promiscuity,
concrete one’s our being
equivalent to cool
the dried human finds.

The found war has lost
its projector.

Pathos or looking
glass—the ocean’s well

I'll Be Seeing You

Keith Higginbotham's poetry has appeared recently or is forthcoming in The Beatnik, Blue & Yellow Dog, Cricket Online Review, ditch, Eratio, G(o)BBeT, The Montucky Review, Otoliths, and Sawbuck. He is the author of Carrying The Air on a Stick (The Runaway Spoon Press), Prosaic Suburban Commercial (Eratio Editions), and Theme From Next Date (Ten Pages Press). He lives in Columbia, SC.

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