SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005





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


worth considering



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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