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Poetry

The stalks of wheat 
scheduled for harvest next week
lap like a lake near the gravel road.
Everything close enough fades  

in the coming dark; what’s at a distance,
gone. My young sons 
chase one another, laughing faces lit up
like baking bread, pulsing and flaring  

in what stray light is left. My small one, 
still rising, turns to me, 
and the silo of my emptiness is full.
They have taught me how to die. 

 

 

 


John Hart was born and raised in Kansas City and currently resides in Orlando. His poems have recently appeared in Chattahoochee Review, North American Review, and Prairie Schooner. 


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