Those pure, breathable love-notes
written on Japanese paper.
Our house, rain-cold
with dawn dying in every corner.
When you sleep
I believe I am made of ice. I travel
in my frozen figure, spiralling,
into God’s domain. While you, flat
amongst the covers, breathe slow like
roots, touchable, sacred
as the shadows of my mortality are born
then perish in the wind’s mute philosophy.
Loneliness infects us all. You have told me,
there will never be a simpler tomorrow.
Cut flowers lean their bloom on pale walls.
I drop my mouth like wine dripped
on your shoulder.
You wake and find me,
Copyright © 1991 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “New Mystics” May 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: