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John SweetPoemsuntitled composition in black and white landscape made hopeless in the season of rust |
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in the great years
John Sweet
and at some point
the days become nothing more
than themselves
no victory and no defeat and
no more blood
spilling from the mouths of poets
no more windowless rooms
and where we are is midnight
in a house i will never own
the sound of the furnace
and of the wind
the shape of my son
asleep beneath his blankets
how much i've learned
about fear
since the moment he was born
From empires, falling, e-chapbook, 2005
www.tmpoetry.com
