If I see God’s skin,
myself a season of
rain washing a field,
then my condition is final.
Doors keep collapsing
like elm-tree branches in an ice-storm.
Stars are weeds to Oblivion’s depths,
sea-floating, swaying with the motion of moons,
spreading weedy flowers of illumination.
I moved from my purgatory coffin,
opened my hand to hold yours. Did it matter?
To lift my head to hear your music?
A perpetual low-fuel
drainage, in me, this desire, hole, exposed
and storming, drip, drip, a spider-bite,
a great bird, small in a high height of sky.
Still, to be asleep again, before this battered bridge
beckoned me across, before the
culprit of caring cracked my anonymity, my
protective chamber fat with secrets, cold with no need.
Looking out, I cry, I could jump, exploring a soft wind.
If only I could stop looking, face
the lonely rushing in, face
the result of this failed equation –
damp dead field, drowned corners.
She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
- Turning Into Nothing
- Palladio’s Vitrum