static and echo

John Sweet

all those days spent running
toward the trees through random
code and broken wires

the young girls singing
pretty songs in houses built
from pale grey bones

there was a priest at the river’s edge 
with a mind of broken glass,
told us we could never build a better god but
we had to prove him wrong

felt like funniest joke ever told,
like the moment just before orgasm

dug a shallow grave for her brother 
and another for his soul and
then we talked about mexico

about south america, about
the ruins at machu picchu,
but here we were in upstate new york

here we were on burnt hill road
watching the old man pull the trigger

watching the dog’s head explode

just one small moment of my
life i could
never quite seem to shake

About the writer