Post Never Never Land

Which way will the world move tomorrow,
you ask with your hair on fire and New Mexico

in the bed beside you, dead with sleep.
And what’s that you’re holding between

finger and thumb. Whims can only proceed
when you cling to nothing. A face white as egg shell,

who was it said, you couldn’t care less? You understand
the ways of the pigeons who gather on power-lines

and that is enough. Wires never tire of catching souls.
Lives are portable. They’re creations of the moment they’re in.

The light, the heat, is vacating your head’s ashes.
You wonder who it is that’s doing the sucking.

***

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Stillwater Review and Big Muddy Review with work upcoming in Louisiana Review, Columbia College Literary Review and Spoon River Poetry Review.

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