and i will take a
minute here to be holy
goodbye/goodbye
grey, pushing towards twilight
the shadows of things you know
lost inside the
shadows of things you need
fifteen degrees and snow on
the first day of spring
pale blue hearts
chalked onto the sidewalk
it occurs to me here that i never
once told you i loved you
with fevered hands, with song
sunlight, then, on pollock’s
last day, and snow on my father’s
sorrow is easy
fear is everywhere
heard the dogs outside while i
lay in bed beside you
grey light, and fading, and no one
left who had known me as a child
no desire to remember
any of my old rooms
and i spoke your name with the
hushed intensity of prayer as i
spread your legs, and the
air smelled like sandalwood
the distance between us
was nothing
was less than nothing
thought it could be like this
forever, but i was wrong
one for l.c., late november, snowing
in the picture,
the house looks whole
the illusion of right angles
and sunlight
cracked and sagging ceiling
just out of the frame,
and i will take a
minute here to be holy
i will google my own name
and learn nothing i
didn’t already know
everything useful
remains hidden
everything hidden
exists beyond value
after each word comes
the silence that defines it
© John Sweet
John Sweet sends greetings from the rural wastelands of upstate NY. He is a firm believer in writing as catharsis, and in compassionate nihilism. His poetry collections include A FLAG ON FIRE IS A SONG OF HOPE (2019 Scars Publications) and A DEAD MAN, EITHER WAY (2020 Kung Fu Treachery Press).
Find out more on bleedinghorse.blogspot.com.
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