Downstream, the seared ruins of space
speak horizontal to a sunray perpendicular.
Rare metals bubble with brook trout.
Helmets harbor small gray crabs.
Cracked skulls litter rapids.
Tanagers sip at the rites of water and blue-lit instruments.
They can fly, their unknown insult
to scattered bones and steel.
What use is Neptune in a burst brain?
Fish know the glistening truths of pebbles
on river floor, pass it on to spawn.
Neurons take rings of Saturn with them
to the death.
It’s raining now. The shock of heavy debris
through cloud perhaps. Droplets fall like tiny
rocket carcasses, splash and spray, surrender their
existence to incessant current. Meanwhile,
current sweeps around charred lumps of exploration
About the Author
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books: Subject Matters, Between Two Fires and Covert are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
