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Greyson Sweetbrook 2

Updated on May 5, 2016

Potter's Field

I can't see a thing.

I can't see a God damned thing.


that's what I say in my

moments of greatest lucidity.


like when I'm acing a CNN

article, following all that

garbled journalism, filling


in the logical gaps. or when

I'm riding as a passenger

in a car, and I know the

names of the most


insignificant rivulets,

of the most magnificent

nothings nobody ever

heard about, like


Potter's Field, over in

the Preserve, where

there are 204 grave

markers with only

numbers, with only


nothingness to recommend

them as fine wine to

the observer of discerning

taste, who pauses and gazes


at the numbered stones, here

150 years after they died,

and critiques the taste.


"long on the finish..."


the dead and the insane,

laying on that hillside

like fine, aged bottles ,

waiting for their echoes


to be opened and sipped.

"hints of madness and poverty"

"fruity, and intensified by


drought of money that

decade"


old Hanna, the last

Lenni Lenape indian is

laid out there too, but no

one knows which number

is hers.


a noble genetics aging with

the insane and the poor

on a hillside that the winds

kiss and comb,


marking death all the sweeter

with each passing season.


I sip these nothings and

I am born. I can see once

again.


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