early morning with
the sky hung like some
forgotten war
over these dreaming houses

pale light
and no shadows and
all of my old poems
seen clearly as
lies

and art is not her problem
but artists

not the woman
who dreams she's a nun but
the boyfriend tying her
to the corners
of the bed

her sister shaking and
dropping the baby
to the cold kitchen floor

and all it does anymore is cry

John Sweet has been writing for 20 years now, publishing in the small press for 14. His recent work has appeared in Red River Review, Skidrow Penthouse, GW Review and Pig Iron Malt, among others.

Please contact him in care of [email protected]