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SENTINEL POETRY #26 Online Magazine Monthly, January 2005 |
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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 |