Jul/Aug 2003 Poetry

landscape, fading

by john sweet


landscape, fading

the beauty of these
empty fields is that
all they are is empty fields

and thirty miles to the east
my wife lights twelve small candles in
a cold white room

we are caught
between seasons

we are in love but unhappy

i am walking along
the edge of a deserted

there is a gas station behind me and
two houses ahead

on the other side of the road are
an abandoned laundromat
and restaurant
that might have fallen from the sky

my shadow is
the same shade of grey as the air

the sky has no color at all

i am a believer in the horizon
and in the powerlines that
trace the flatness of it

i never knew the
drowning boy's name but can
take you to the part of the river
that devoured him

if i walk far enough
a town will grow from the fields

at the other end of it
i will find my house

will find my wife crying for
all of the things
i've ever failed at

crying for the people we've

all of my
carefully arranged words
scattered on the floor around her
like wreckage


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