LANDSCAPE WITH THE WOUNDED

there is the day where
he says he
doesn't love you anymore

there is the afternoon where
my wife bursts into tears
and cannot be consoled

and does it matter that
this man in california has
butchered his family?

not as much as it should

i remember all of the times i
said i'd never leave
and i remember all of the times
i left
and there is a need for
sunlight here

there is a need for silence
broken only by the faraway drone
of a single plane

on some days
i know myself to be happy
and on others i can only pull
all of the shades in the house
and wait

and not every hill is my enemy
and not every empty field
holds the decaying body of
someone's missing daughter

i keep reminding myself
of this

feel the child's screams
expand in the hot sticky air
and i know that somewhere
your husband is with
another woman

i understand the potential
for failure

there is always something
moving just beyond
the point of salvation



LITANY FOR THE WOMAN I LOVE

it is not
a sickness exactly
but she is crying

i am two hundred miles
away

am walking down
empty hallways and
listening to the silence
push out against the windows

and there is no point in
being sorry for these
things i cannot control but
i am sorry

my father will die
and my son will be born
and i will stand before any mirror
i can find and see only
a stranger

and i have been in love

i have sat in the
coldest room watching the sky
forget the sun and
the phone has refused
to ring

i have tasted
how angry sex can be
and i have begged for more
and she is crying

she is standing
outside a house that is
no longer there

twenty years later
and the air between us is
always filled with smoke
and there is
nothing i can do

this is the one thing
we still agree on



THIS DAY WILL BECOME A POEM

always
on the edge of
this lake

the sun dying and
filtered through
two hundred years of
industrial poison

your mother gone
again
your sister left
with herself

in love with
the idea of love

silent
at the window as we
drive away

and fifteen miles
from home
you ask if this day
will become a
poem

and i tell you
everything will
eventually

my words
too much like a
beggar's prophecy
to make you
smile

- John Sweet