a revelation, slowly

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a revelation, slowly
By John Sweet

you
on the afternoon
of the porn queen's suicide
and then me

both of us
but not together

not warm
and not hopeful
and the president in
his rotting bed of memories

a man with hands
that can only strike out in
anger or fear

the sky painted
four shades of poison

the bones
of christ's brother
found in a stone box in a
forgotten corner of a cluttered room
and that there are any number
of ways to say
i hate you

that the poem is only a stone
in an empty field

the hand cold
and the body naked

the reasons unimportant as
the doctor tells you that
some bleeding is to
be expected

his face not a mask
but a shroud