I hear the tumbleweed bounce
and the jewelled breath of the
antelope. Pebbles under my
tongue. His aura is heavenbound.
His mind is breaking up
in his landscape beyond my reach.
I turn to him – his leg stretched
out, tilting clockwise.
Where power is shapeless
and some shrilling sorrow
is sealed in fishbowl eyes,
ruling from behind glass worlds –
I see him born, towering between
flesh. His head is a miracle, a
I turn to him. I run to him.
His belly makes me weep. Pulsing
up and down, warm with life.
He is coming out from the
quicksand wound. His beauty,
quenchless. His is innocence is
Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Synchronized Chaos” June 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: