She’s out in the cold,
the darkness.
Her brown hair is black.
Her face is held together
by fitful moon
and indifferent street lamp.
Bare arms tremble.
Legs hold on.
She bites down on her red lip,
stares ahead into the nothingness.
Her eyes don’t get what they came for,
only what they expect:
some indecisive shapes,
a few creeping shadows.
Her busted heart
is buried in its bog of veins.
Her broken spirit
is known only
to her desultory thoughts.
For the rest of us,
the night itself
is her description.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Grey works as financial systems analyst and has recently published in Slant,Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.
the darkness.
Her brown hair is black.
Her face is held together
by fitful moon
and indifferent street lamp.
Bare arms tremble.
Legs hold on.
She bites down on her red lip,
stares ahead into the nothingness.
Her eyes don’t get what they came for,
only what they expect:
some indecisive shapes,
a few creeping shadows.
Her busted heart
is buried in its bog of veins.
Her broken spirit
is known only
to her desultory thoughts.
For the rest of us,
the night itself
is her description.
John Grey is an Australian born poet, US resident since late seventies. Grey works as financial systems analyst and has recently published in Slant,Briar Cliff Review and Albatross with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.
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