February by John Sweet

this shirt with blood
on the cuffs

the sun
just because it’s there

just because it sounds like
the voice of god when i close my eyes

sounds like snow falling into
the open hands of the blind
and so, we’re standing at the edge of
the forest when the first
plane is spotted

i’m trying to remember my
father’s face
when the north tower falls

am sitting in a shadowed room
in someone else’s house
and the windows streaked with dust
the television filled with static
and i remember her telling me her name
but can’t think of what it is

i understand the need for silence

can drown just as well as
the next man