against the hours
the city in decay
and then the ragged edges
a small room in a quiet house
as i watch you get dressed
and that we are losing these moments
as quickly as they happen
we are remembering
our pasts imperfectly
i am sorry but never
for anything more than myself
my bleeding heart and its crown of thorns
grey frost on grey lawns but still
hope for the future which
has nothing to do with belief in
anyone’s god
dirt-smeared sky seen through
bitter glass
a dead man’s dying factory on
the edge of some upstate town
the idea of motion
which becomes important
only after you’ve been
nailed to the ground
took me 30 years to figure this out,
and by then i was
too crippled with fear to care
Bionote
John Sweet, b. 1968, a huge believer in writing as catharsis. Opposed to all political parties and dogmatic thought of every ilk. lives in the wastelands of upstate NY. latest collection is APPROXIMATE WILDERNESS (2016 Flutter Press).
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