
FROM 2.A.M. TO YOU The night reads to me from its book of shadows. Curtains rustle the song of the wind. From poplar to grass shoots, the outside dabbles in the art of the whistled weep, the passion of the scent. What have I to be afraid of? Awake at 2.00 a.m. and staring into blackness? That's when I'm at the my most awake. So what if the moon pegs me for a lunatic! I go crazy with scrutiny and reflection. It's an indistinct country here and whatever retains the most shape, rules. So the dresser is king. The door is its queen. My arms, my hands, are the curious princes. My wife sleeps on as the populace do. LOOKING BACK My memories are webs, long after the spider has departed. What I knew then, I have a way of knowing now. It’s woven loosely so I get tangled now and then. But the facts are there. They float on the wind of my thinking. HEREWITH, THE NIGHT Routine entails shine, glitter, glimmer, as stars glow with ancient flame and the moon rises through cloud remnant, a slow waltz with the earth’s turn on a dark fire-specked dance floor. CRYSTALS When you examined the crystal in the antique shop, it turned your face in my direction. That jewelry dish selected various angles, repositioned them, joined these threads together, aimed them delightfully at me. I must have swallowed crystal at some time in my life because, at that same moment, its manifold reflections reassembled soul, heart, even mind, in an odd vortex that overwhelmed the lenses in my eyes. Yes, when you and I first met, it was at the behest of allotropes. You remember things differently, more happenstance, less optical engineering.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. His latest books are Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself, available on Amazon.
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