The fire-storm pelts too-old rock,
uproots overripe earth, in a violent burst,
brings relief to worlds tired of living
like torrential rain flooding dry plains
with July thunders, hailstones.
Underwater flame-dust in my nighttime
nest wakes me; what’s left of the planet
floats gold, like stars in a celestial
torpor, even burns a little
at the edges of my flesh,
where my imagination crystallizes.
Across interminable light years,
the lightning blaze that rips into
its methane face quietly carves
some scars of that destruction
into me; the violent crash,
the nimbus-rattle, roll over with me
into the silent pit of sleep,
that planet crushed again in one
of my involuntary gestures,
but still staining my heart,
like a lover I never knew I had
now lost to me.
Every night, my forehead
sweeps aside the particles with
a brush of hair
and a dying world waves to me
then spills off into darkness.
– John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and Visions International.