In a man’s deep eyes, how empty the craters.
Heart, give me the exact moment. All other times fall flat.
The first drop confused you. You survived. But then there was the second.
Yeah, good old diesel train. The ghost of steam is in fine hands.

This is a Godlike wind, otherwise why ail the regret, the phony repentance.
And that’s a wonderful crackle of dead leaves underfoot. Of death anywhere.
Dear friends – the internet being so insatiably digital, I’m just a human blob,
if you could only see my solitude. My jealousies almost sob.

In this keyboard, I have discovered an ancient treasure map.
The x says, what is death but the lengthy kiss of bone and air.
I type nothing. The lack of words is my contribution. The lack of meaning is God’s.
In anything, the very core is you. Here or not here. Take that as a compliment.

It’s not pretty – the last of what we are. It wasn’t meant to be.
The awkward guy, left of frame, that’s me. The center? A vacuum now.
The limp puff of the damp cigarette or the clogged chimney. Me again.
What a house I live in. Love left and it was the same as me staying.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Schuylkill Valley Journal, The Stillwater Review and Big Muddy, with work upcoming in The Louisiana Review, The Columbia Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.

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