SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005

JOHN SWEET

 

Lost

 

this sound you make

like breaking glass

 

these walls you

pull tight around you

 

that turn to dust or

burst into flames and

the fact that who you are is me

 

midnight and sitting

in a room i don't recognize

 

driving in the emptiness

between two towns i don't know

 

in bed at some point and

my wife next to me crying

 

my hands finding each other

in the dim glow of the streetlights

and this idea of oceans

 

of escape or drowning

 

the money gone but the

age of salvation approaching

 

the possibility of hope

almost

worth considering

 

this

and nothing more

 

 

Pilate in the age of oblivion

 

something obvious then

like the number of people who've

said they hate me

 

the speed at which a man

might fall

from the 98th floor

 

or maybe that you knew him

 

maybe that you slept with his wife

in a house

neither one of you called home

 

there are worse things

of course

but pain is pain

 

nothing grows in its shadow

and no one needs to breathe

 

no one tries to speak

 

it's enough to drive

the nails through the flesh

without hesitation

 

 

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