I’m swapping metaphors with the Rockies –
high, grounded, goals, journey.
And sometimes underground rivers –
blind fish, depths, darkness, core.
Then I tramp through marsh grass –
the inference not so elemental,
merely damp socks and slow water.
And the morning rays –
they’ve lost its spark of new beginnings long ago.
Now it just is.
Like a refrigerator just is.
It keeps my meat frozen but no inspiration thank you.
The ocean never suspects what I’m up to.
It rolls to shore, tickles my feet.
It’s endless, bottomless,
and it tastes of salt.
My religions have to start somewhere.
And the road – it’s a novel I’ve yet to write –
already more chapters than would fit
into a dozen books.
Sunset, I’m done with.
I’ll sit on the porch,
sip the wine.
But I’ll ignore the passages.
derail the closures.
Then comes night, full on,
the moon, stars –
symbols, allegories,
even my old friend context,
can take their turns –
ominous shadows, optimistic light.
I sleep – as arranged.
I dream – existence –
where it counts – custom-made.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.