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