The night’s not singing
hymns to us.
That’s just fools
warbling around the piano
in that bar across the street.
And ghosts aren’t on the prowl.
Strictly wind, lover,
strictly wind.
The shake of trees…
you know the type.
Critters crackling through
the underbrush.
Sure, the trunk has roots
but you and I?
We go back as far
as our last tears.
And when was that?
Yesterday?
The evening’s mute
for all our passing through it.
It knows a time
before men, before women.
And nothing since then,
I might add.
Let’s sit here,
these rough stones.
uncomfortable as it may me.
Kiss while we can
but this is the reign
of the pitiless rock.
* * * * *
John Grey is an Australian born poet who works as financial systems analyst. Recently published in Poem, Caveat Lector, Prism International and the horror anthology, “What Fears Become”, he has work upcoming in Potomac Review, Hurricane Review and Pinyon. His other contributions to Snake-Oil Cure can be found here.
Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure 