Night panaromaThe night sky is my alphabet soup.
My eyes can stir that dark bowl.
I can name whatever star
pops to the surface.
Despite my bones, my flesh,
I'm celestial.
It's more than mere astronomy.
I look up at the heavens
like I'm looking down on them.
I sit at the table of my bedroom window
and bring each sparkling light,
every sun-god spirit,
to the rim of my devouring.
But I spare the diamond cloaks of comets,
the archers, lions, the water carriers.
I feast on this meal
by leaving it be.
It's my eyes that have the hunger
and they're for looking
not for sating.

Copyright © 2009, John Grey

Image Credit: Jakub Sochacki, some rights reserved

John Grey is an Australian born poet and a US resident since the late seventies. He works as a financial systems analyst. He has been recently published in Slant, Briar Cliff Review and Albatross, with work upcoming in Poetry East, Cape Rock and REAL.