To Mourn the Dusk
Measure of rain,
echoing through his
Authenticity locked beneath
his belly, amidst swarming
bullets of base destruction.
Rage grinding, titling his
an ivory sun.
People play with him, give response
to his repeating voice, won’t abort
his fatal ebb and flow.
He sits with arrows under his seat,
trusts nothing but the iron isolation
Will not speak to children or enjoy
a paint-by-number. Loves only
chewed wounds, impossible needs,
the drowned swimmer
Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Our Poetry Archive” June 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: