Under mosaic whisperings

 .

and cesspool attempts at betterment, spiritual

or otherwise, neuroses rise raw to the lips

to sip on again like the new day’s dew.

Hoisting up fences or spring saplings, laying

out books to see their titles and choose

between that or combustion. Enchantments shed

to make way for awareness that glimpses nirvana –

particles of burnt-out folly, at times, pervading.

        Bytes are streaming beaming supernova synchronistic

melting downs, past thresholds that cannot be returned from

or spoken about. Density surrounds

like the deep moist grey cold innards of a cloud.

Fish on a stick, in a stream, going around –

whirlpool blackholes to vanish in and touch upon an echo.

        Giving in to the storm, giving over to the voice repeating,

compressing joy and urgency into a single crescendo.

      Three days left to saw down the dead tree

and sweep the bird droppings from the driveway.

In three days the winds will pick up, and

looking out schoolbus windows, children

will be arriving at the campground,

close to letting loose, like lavender flowers

anticipating their first sunrise bloom.

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.Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

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First published in “Ginosko Literary Journal Issue 16” May 2015

http://ginoskoliteraryjournal.com/images/ginosko16.pdf

http://ginoskoliteraryjournal.com/downloads.htm

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