John Swain

To Forgetting

Above the flower interlace
of the bare mattress,
floods of a thousand years
end the marble archways
while the room moves
then returns to forgetting.
I fell through the circle burns
in my white shirt
and all the dark was sea,
I hoped for words to merge
this perishing with a future
of rest and acceptance.
Shadowy trees in a dream
became the rain we chased
until we lay with the world
in the innocence we were,
I faded from this stillness
trusting death to love me.

Same as the Rain

Wife like a mask,
your secrets
and your silence
provided an alibi
for my violence.
I spoke rage
over shame
with blood
on my tongue
like wine spilt
on the curtain.
The grey light
same as the rain
and naked, illumines
all that we have
and all
we will never find.




John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Crisis Chronicles Press published his most recent chapbook, White Vases.


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