Dennis James Sweeney

an apologetic try

of sticks at saying:

I was not here

but destined

for ardor, raw in flame—

     stare at me

     stare, solitary

in the calm dry cold dark

I don’t believe a path could lie

There are ideal planes

where you hear the numbers

(red, the numbers)

     “Let us help”

but burn is all we can do

…no, the river is still

somewhere under the field

…our engine builds

futures for it, not for us

…apologize but

be the ground

I am freezing with you

and afraid, while this

pale field sinks

to another field

so hot it burned the air of enemy

Statue in blistered name

of the gratified sub-lunar



Warm navy suit for faith

Like a spool, I carry

my question:



Not why, but who

bought what with what

and how cold



it felt before

my grandfather let himself fall

to the believed-place



K-rations and a shed

in the nuclear echo

I sit with him



through the old days

Mankind and grass, a lark

under a gold picture frame

Dennis James Sweeney is the author of You're the Woods Too (Essay Press, 2023) and In the Antarctic Circle (Autumn House Press, 2021). He lives in Amherst, Massachusetts.