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To John Sweet's previous piece

writing poems for the bones of burning widows

pure white sunlight for
these last days of
september

powerlines hum
over empty fields
and ginsberg is as dead
as the summer of love

a plastics factory
burns down on the west side
of binghamton

we'll wait a year to see
how deformed the
babies will be

and i keep a list of
suicides
in the back of my mind

a shotgun in the trunk

i'm claustrophobic
in wide open spaces
and i waste too many
afternoons writing poems
for the bones of
burning widows

all i want is
to be remembered as
a better man than i
really am

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