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waiting for the day to begin

John Sweet

this is not light
this purplegrey film laid
above these houses
and dead trees

this is three degrees below
zero
and I am waiting for the
day to begin

am waiting for the baby
to wake up

for objects to solidify and
cast shadows and I am
waiting for christ's name to pour
like black blood from the
mouths of priests

I have stood knee-deep
in the word
and have felt
nothing but despair

there are
things to be loved
and things to be
treated kindly and still
my hands fold in on
themselves

squeeze the color from
the skin
and what worth does a fist have
with nothing to strike?

how many years will it take
for these brittle windows
to finally melt to
the floor?

and it’s not an answer
I’m after here
but a voice loud enough
to drown out
my own

 


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