Rags on Branches
Ghosts over the road
the width of a storm
on houses and yards
as we shared meaning
like a decorated clay.
I went again the room
despairing of hawthorn
as scent led the door
back to open smoke
cleansing the past year.
Against you with you
wearied of healing
in the clothes of air
like the sky we made
into a strange language.
I do not have a place
to be laid in the grave
maybe a Kentucky field
or the ocean forever.
I would still chisel
at the grey tombstones
raised in our way
like rags on branches
for the pain we owe.
John Swain
Ghosts over the road
the width of a storm
on houses and yards
as we shared meaning
like a decorated clay.
I went again the room
despairing of hawthorn
as scent led the door
back to open smoke
cleansing the past year.
Against you with you
wearied of healing
in the clothes of air
like the sky we made
into a strange language.
I do not have a place
to be laid in the grave
maybe a Kentucky field
or the ocean forever.
I would still chisel
at the grey tombstones
raised in our way
like rags on branches
for the pain we owe.
John Swain