The night is held together
by whispered stories,
by a dark that throbs
with heavy passions,
peerless desires.
Eager to exist even in sleep,
you float upon the wave
of cooling seas,
of tender-winged blankets,
tresses and plumes.
The window opening is redundant.
Windows have already
swung wide deep inside you.
a less smiling portrait
of the seducers of your every moment.
He moves toward you,
all strange regret and plotting grief,
a mask of seriousness
sprinkled with absurd magic,
a love proud and tingling
like a hand over a flame.
His face drifts through your blindness,
his eyes like beasts running at liberty,
cheeks nuanced out of color.
a ravine of a mouth.
He bites angel footsteps, rain of stars.
He bites human freight, gorgeous ruins.
He bites radiant surprise, abrupt splendor.
Your body sways like a lantern
on a railway platform
as trains come in, go out.
Your blood sings for these sacred excursions.
What could be theft
is really something ancient
given back.
* * *
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Leading Edge, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in The Fifth Di, Space and Time and Holy Flea.
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