by John Grey
More space. A story wets the lips
as much as tears. And then deep dark
with but the faintest shimmer of light
like the city on a smoggy night.
Like the skyscrapers. Like the houses.
Like what I leave behind. Like nothing I go to.
Then more space. Amazed how I can
fill it with a daily walk, a lover's name,
the wind bend of a tree. Meteor shower
like checkbook, bills and blue pen.
Quantum leap, what's that? Leap of faith
more likely. High school kiss. Fingers
slipped into the groove of a
soon to be favorite book. What is
that music? Beethoven? Take that
universe. The final frontier's
superceded by the first of everything.
Loads of space. Globs of space.
But still one person spreading that
brown blanket on the grass,
and a woman prettier for being remembered
taking the shape, the position,
of his passion, of his love. Rocket
science? If I could create a fuel,
it would be out of pickup lines and flesh
dissolving, disappearing into need.
Vehicle? Isn't that what memories are for?
Space. Gulfs of it. Chasms of it.
It's the space existence would fill
if there weren't people in it.
Like I said. It's nothing.
Copyright © 2004, John Grey
The Cone Nebula
John Grey is an Australian-born poet, playwright, and musician. His latest chapbook is The Body's Last Days, from Richard Geyer Publishing. His work has recently appeared in Weird Tales, South Carolina Review and Haight-Ashbury Literary Review.
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