Chad Sweeney




From "An Architecture"





Though railroad tracks appear to meet

in the distance


they never do.

Hired mourners depart


to the wrong century.

Radio signals


bead along strands of smoke

over Appalachia


(where I feel tempted to report

the rivers are smoldering)


and glaciers in New York Harbor

redirect the lights


straight up into the haze.

Music reinforces the girders.


One must


rely on hypnosis,

a window


the color of wine

is what in death



The future protagonist


under development,

equidistant from his flaws,


imposes this plot on memory.





I should have said

I meant to say  


the flock turns

in that carpenter leaning on the pole  


differently than

in you who read it—  


at the museum

we file by in ones      pulling  


each thing up by its naked

material—plucking it out  


into light      from the zero—

the sun  


shines for those who demand it      one  


scarab     one flint—edge

of the rail, the rail edge  



of an approaching train  


its circumstance

and something of the words  


shouted in dining cars





The meteor shower

inside the man

maintains his equili-



Chained to a tractor

he dragged away the surface

of the lake

complete with its reflection.


I painted

the stone's


directly on the window.


It wore a yellow bird.

It wore a fissure, a patch of light.


My brush was a chisel,

where the glass cracked

day leaked in,

elegant and famished.


Please, lie down with me, here.

Consider a hinge made of wind,

the syntax in a field of rye.






Mystery of the grass—one

and many, to make a face of it,

eyes where shadows beat

in natural and random  




the mud decides.

Grass as mirror  


                  for the growing

doubts in me, or  


loves, to make a face  


of shifting planes

                     the city is—  


of what changes and what



that quiver

               of instability

   in the molecule

           by which the world

marries itself               in the small.