By Stephen Mcleod
Stephen McLeod's first full-length publication of poems and the winner of the may possibly Swenson Poetry Award backed by way of Utah nation collage Press
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Extra resources for Borgo Of The Holy Ghost (Swenson Poetry Award)
I watch his silhouette haloed with rain Caught in streetlight scrim, still a shower Between the dark and darker, but it’s slower. His steps crescendo as he closes in. He never looks. I never call him. He Moves past me, but I run with what he’s run, His complicated son. In the end, he will lie underneath me, His counsel quit, his daily waking done. I wish I were a quiet man.  BROKEN Once I ran away into the night ten years There was no harm in the night any hand hot At my belt at my shirt buttons I dreamed I sailed above them I was the deft man So many years night boundless ﬂexible Striped light through shudders the only hunger Bracing the slim space between us I was Another there another wet city Pond of yellow light swimming still blistered Wet roads hurricane the windows rattled I was awake all night ten years away And sixteen since a quiet jungle Once I ran away hard night slow night Whispers me still whispers still whispers  OUR LADY OF ABUNDANCE No payoff at ﬁrst.
19] AT J O H N B R O W N ’ S G R AV E I am feeling so empty this May after three years the same thing; I need to go up, see the sights, take in a little of the last Cold air before Life. So I come here. It isn’t hard to ﬁnd, Just off the highway at one of those towns whose sole reason For existence is a famous shack, a grave, a barn And the tallest mountain in New York state. I don’t know, maybe I have a nervous condition, but I stand at The fence getting sunburned and I’m thinking, why? A woman Who lives just off the federal parking lot or whatever it is seems So excited to see us like a happy Labrador.
It was my room just off the hall. It was my vantage point: I watched my parents tear each other up. Light brazen, invading my dark. It seemed that if I slept someone would go and not come back. He did and I was right to be alone. I’ve loved. But loved alone. And what does it matter now, thirty years late? Snapdragons, goldenrod, tall tulips opening, autumned limbs arranged with pumpkin kids, gesture paintings, too many clothes, too many books; but just the right kaleidoscope. And then, there’s always someone else to consider, his brain, his bearing.