in the great years

John Sweet

and at some point
the days become nothing more
than themselves

no victory and no defeat and
no more blood
spilling from the mouths of poets

no more windowless rooms

and where we are is midnight
in a house i will never own

the sound of the furnace
and of the wind

the shape of my son
asleep beneath his blankets

how much i've learned
about fear
since the moment he was born

From empires, falling, e-chapbook, 2005