John Swain- Three Poems

A Throwing Veil

After fishing the beach

the eagle turns to light

behind the pines

like a bright sun to the west

chased by crows.

I put my face

to the darkening waves

beginning to rain

in consummation.

I see you naked,

the black mist lifts

a fragrant throwing veil.

The Angle of List

Thunderhead storm winds build in the evening

as the sea of lightning shakes a gull bone rattle,

the waves break in white spray trailing.

Ring of vision

with the grey sky and waves prostrate

as the osprey cries your brother of the Atlantic.

I dissolve in the salt like the pillar of a woman

seeing angels

swim with the ships ripping their sails.

Origin of our source this dark migration route

extends the horizon

from body to body, face to face, hand in hand.

Then the severing overwhelms

the myth of contentment, the myth of oneness,

and we continue the angle of list.

Sea Island

The sea island bells

for the fog in the harbor

dredged onto barges.

Caroline, your twin,

Susannah has gone

back to the mountains.

I loved in a misuse,

I took my confession

from the ghost on the water.

A still quiets the bells

like a name vanishes

with the childless.

Black oaks hold

the world submerged

in the grey dawn.

John Swain lives in Louisville, Kentucky. Red Paint Hill published his collection, Ring the Sycamore Sky.