a poem by John Grey



A real spotlight emerges here,
and eyes, that work in progress,
and lives press, edge against edge.
and return with news of hearts.
as far as that spotlight, stops here,
but intercept each other.
clear and solid in less forceful ways,
cloud lines float across our hearing,
cocoons empty out,
countermanding instructions from their planet
curiously uninvolving.
fingers step out of anonymity,
flesh knows firsthand the warmth of satellites
gather away from their peers on stage,
illustrate what we are not reading.
impervious to our weather patterns.
In superior isobars,
in the shadow of champagne.
intelligence and foolishness exchange gifts.
into decorous, perfumed oceans
into the audience of ourselves,
like things brought by rivers,
mill about the moods,
of those who do not meet
on stage,
poets, deposited in the dark
the hidden workshop of the table.
the moth, the butterfly,
the real event is motionless,
the vast world emptied into a glass
the world does not reach
their rain, their breaks for sun,
these others move about
three steps down from stages,
to single out and interpret.
to the rattle of paper,
where things make themselves
where words depart like ships
wild and animated,
with better meanings



Author Bio:

John Grey is an Australian born poet, works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Osiris.



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