John Sweet writes

time, in all directions

or the minor acts of dead men

of forgotten lovers

you live in the past

                   present

                 or future

and make no apologies

am i inventing you

correctly here?

fifteen wasted years and

then five good ones

and then the cancer

the phone call from his sister on a

weekend i was out of town and

what if i tell her the joke but

forget the punchline?

there are other lives at stake here,

you understand

gods taking bullets and

newborn babies set on fire and

all of the pits being dug by

anonymous soldiers on the

edges of factory towns

all of the wars that are started

while we sleep

all of the letters from home

that get lost along the way

never knew you were loved

until it was

too late to matter