Place of No Anger The angry man described himself barren, useless, but a reflected shine - gift of a copper ray released him like the sun itself, once fogged by morning now, in brightness, emboldening the sky, made him king of drunken pools courtesy of dew, as if the light had liquefied, flexing orange crystals under leaves, promise under skin, while insects coated pond and rivulet - a Venice of fresh life, and diamonds filled his crevasses, gleamed blue-green, while monarchs unfurled, floated slow, and his shroud lifted, jettisoned his pain. High on a hill, flowers arrayed bulky oak trunks, life beat soft inside the petal silence, he grew from quiet destruction, salient decomposing, man and nature tempered by their clocks, from mossy walls to saturated dark brains, sun passed through his face, gilded new eyes, ruby blooms loosened scenes from his calendar, shuddering indifference like a bell tongue showed him lightness, as imagination faked gravity, the innards of his tired old ballet turned inside out, new and clear as honey drip, as water drew back, censure receded, left the earth to its human findings.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, Leaves On Pages, Memory Outside The Head and Guest Of Myself are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.