John Grey
Golden shapes
emerge from gray dusk
then dissolve
in moonlight.
Why can no one else see them?
Are my eyes
in contrast to
the eyes of others?
Sight is such a small thing
but its stage is boundless.
Once it’s seen what’s there,
it can work on what is missing.
And the heart is a wrench
to one side or the other,
an invitation to linger,
amid forgotten senses
and old fires that reanimate from ashes.
And the sky
fills with parallel years,
framing lights,
particles like tiny ants
nesting in the stars.
Unmutilated,
whole,
everything passes this way,
past, present, and future,
It gathers in the foreground.
It’s held in place by sighs.
Clamor 