Sleep deep into the truth
Pass softly into forests of the night
sprout many owls like fruit.
Their chorus fills with moonlight.
Your body is a rotted trunk
into which the earth rips
with wet, metallic fingers.
But for years yet, a faraway bird
lifts its eyelids, opens its beak,
whoops the distance you’ve become.
I’ve acquired the night, its wretched star-dust,
far off and burning brittle and gaudy.
The Greek invented love. It’s been taken
to extremes but the heart didn’t hold.
What was fusion is now fission.
And curious marks in the wallpaper.
I lie here, weary in my death,
tired of waiting to meet the dawn.
Like the coffee I sip, I am nothing more
than where I am, bitter and alone.
Drunk on solitude, and those firework ashes
in the sky, this is the golden age of bronze.
To others now, your hands are offered, pointed,
to where your children and their future have a place.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Big Muddy and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.