this vague and shimmering light down
these complicated streets and
the way that we never arrive

or maybe this is too close to the truth

something simpler then

the baby asleep
in a sunfilled room

my oldest boy with
his beautiful smile and his
uncomplicated love

not poetry but unadorned gifts

talismans to hold out against
the ghosts of the raped
and the broken bones of christ

and still
at some point
we get in the car and drive

we move beneath the falling white sky
towards a house where
a child has died

we talk quietly about the need
for money

about the possibility of war and
the fact that the butchered
never really care whether they've
won or lost

we pass the field where
the woman's body was found and
then the house where she lived

and the way
they look so fucking ordinary


� 2004 by John Sweet