​The Jasmine

Night aromatic upon the jasmine
presages relief from the distrust
spread by the well,
I took money to the park square.
Banyans glow holding the moon
like a white apple
in the dream written upon a wick
soon to be burned in forgetting.
I tired of the welt and the insects
in the stillness of gate and alley,
I stepped over a blue wall laying
torn like evening dress in coffin.
Coolness of stones in the garden
against the forehead
and cup of porcelain
I accepted in rest and inheritance.




John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Thunderclap Press published his most recent chapbook, Fragments of Calendars.