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there is only the sound

John Sweet

at some point
it becomes 2:00 a.m.

february moves into
march
and i drink the faucets dry

pace from room to room
while my wife dreams of the
man she loves

and i am not drunk but
tired beyond sleep
and in every window
in every house on this street
a tiny candle burns

each one a
silent benediction
but the starving can't eat
these empty gestures

the bleeding have
no use for poetry

eventually
there is only the sound
of the dead being
slowly forgotten

 


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