He dreams about a body in the barn,
dreams about a house in the country.
Dreams he outlives his children,
then wakes up depressed.
Waits for the phone to ring,
but it doesn’t.
Waits for the rain,
then waits for it to pass.
Considers the body again,
the subtle carnage, the face
which he recognized.
Which he thought he recognized.
Fading now, as his youngest boy
runs laughing into the room.
John Sweet, b. 1968, has lived most of his life in rural upstate New York. A believer in “writing as catharsis”, and a searcher for some constantly evolving absolute truth. Most recent collection is approximate wilderness (Flutter Press, 2016).