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

signing bonfire.


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:



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