Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Two Pieces From John Swain

Green Windows

Green rain in green windows
I hid as the morning darkened
allowing an easy sleep to heal
the pain that waking scraped
against the black glass of my tongue.
Air remained on the cool sheet
as the salts dissolved in a bowl
of leaves and peel and flowers,
your face escaped the vapors
I breathed upon the changing mirror.
A thunder silenced the wind chimes
as vials kept the droplet water
like a hollow bone pipe to light,
and now smoke layers with sky
as I waited for your rose voices.


Instead of the Evening

Mist like a white body
traveling the clay road
I pass from the failing.
A yellow hammer screeches
the theology of resurrection
against dripping green trees,
though you remain nameless
beside the dying fawn,
I had no incantation to call.
I tried to say goodbye
in a heavy coat of rain
as frogs bubbled in the mud.
And perhaps it is better
to be alone in the morning
instead of the evening,
I floated candles on the sea.


--John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His chapbooks, Prominences and Sinking of the Cloth, appeared from Flutter Press and Set Apart Before the World Was Made appeared from Calliope Nerve Media. Full of Crow published his ebook, The Feathered Masks. His work has received nominations for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best of the Web.

1 comment:

Hurley said...

Simply moving. Simply telling. Simple beauty!