• John Sweet

in the city of silent effigies

in the city of silent effigies

no hatred


no bullets through the hearts

of holy men

i sit in

the motionless haze of

august evenings

and write poems for

sleeping children


i hold your hand

in the shadows of

the refinery towers

the bleeding horse stands up

and walks away

i pour whiskey

on my father's grave

and villages don't burn

and innocent men don't hang

the walls are always white

the beds always neatly made

i stand

in the middle of main street

and breathe gasoline air

i hold your hand

in the silence of

wide open fields

flowers grow at our feet

and no one declares war

we wait for our luck

to fail

—John Sweet


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