By John Grey
So what’s out there.
Bones, I figure.
And blood from a guy tossed through
a plate glass window.
Whatever it is,
it must be melted by this
because the sun’s sitting right atop it.
No doubt, there’s armies slashed to ribbons.
And devouring beasts.
Vanquished cities.
No poetry.
Only scarred pride.
And fire the red of rubies.
That’s the sun’s doing.
Making sure even corpses
are buffed up roseate.
Yes, my guess is that
everything over the earth’s curve
is in ruins,
stark naked down to the bone,
stripped of love or any feeling.
But the sun will clean house.
They’ll be ashes by the time night gets here.
So why am I headed in that direction?
Because I was told there was something
better out there.
Better for those who are doing the killing.
And for the sun, of course,
refusing to shed light on this.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review.
