Poetry / Poets / Writers / Writing



A smelly, brown grub
shrinks before another young woman.
in your dreams, where you see
brief glimpses in the butterfly
splattered against the windshield of your car;
memories call it correctly,
their projectors rolling,
double bill, all that you’ve done wrong
then the attempt to humanize it;
you can only drive nowhere,
accelerate into how you see yourself,
threatened by the car in front of you,
a Toyota, the back of her neck,
enough swish in the hair
to charm the dying branches,
reinvigorate the cheap and second-hand
as she’s cheered on by cows chewing grass,
while you chose the currents that circle her body,
return to you promising,
a cleansing art, a climbing, a clinging,
you and her close as rain-drops,
unknown to your ugly side
and its dark steps, frenzied screaming
in your hand, in the mirror, .
in the alley, in the kitchen,
like someone breaking before massive paws
with more movement than meaning;
like a disused movie house,
your head spools the narrowness
of your life set against the sky, the storm,
while hers remits like a child’s wonder
at the road, at the soap,
of the refrigerator light;
soon enough, you’ll be out of dreams,
into the insanity of ledges,
thin as skin, below
smoke and noise, sound of
that implacable throng of wheels
and spectators on fire
with no clue what they’re watching;
you’ll still hold on;
she won’t hear.


John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Slant, Southern California
Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Soundings East.


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