Out of Dreams
Like clay brick eroded
by rain, thoughts sear
my better part, calling me
to the altar, to kneel and
discipline these fantastical wanderings.
Like an egg yolk pierced, I spill
my substance flat across the frying pan.
I live in the time just before dawn.
I curse the crocodile but praise
its authority. The clock strikes seven
and I have lost my sparrow for good.
I have waited for the change, wished myself more
than this life, making a remedy from imagination.
I will walk the straight line as an experiment, walk
to feel like a buttercup flower tied to the forest floor –
satisfied with its display of tiny splendor, at peace
with its place amongst the aged trees.
© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Outlaw Poetry” October 2018