John Grey





Missing keys rose over fields of grass.

Silver slivers of lost coins shone

between the pines.  Horses saddled

with stuff that happened just last week

galloped along the banks of a river

that flowed with hair through fingers,

ice cubes jangling in a glass,

eyes catching themselves in a mirror.


Air felt like a good crowd.  Shadows

wore their party hats.  The flesh

I roamed my fingers over was a

tapestry of sun roofs down,

jeans hung low, lipstick clinging

to mouth like hands to life raft.

The ground was covered with

the dew of remembered dreams.

Every droplet told its story before

the sun burned them up listening.

Copyright 2003 John Grey.  All Rights Reserved.

Back Home Next