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Monday, 25 June 2012

John Swain-


The cover morn 
lifts in a light
the shape of prey
afeared to sleep
through the kill.
I am learning
to only serve you
with my life
like a cupbearer
sips for poison
with a loyalty
never questioned.
Birds strayed
beyond sky gates
like the pool
of a fountain
where I drew water
for your bathing.

Heaven to the Low

A recess suggested
behind the juniper
by a friend disguised
with occasional love
we could not fully share.
I dug at the stones
worn with age
like a man
to hide disappointment
and unfreedom
in the limited way
we must converse.
Sick and weakened
I cannot draw
the same pull
from the black thread
connecting like a beacon kite
every heaven to the low.

John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. His most recent chapbook, White Vases, was published by Crisis Chronicles Press.

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