I hear the wild birds
sing beneath my skin.
Too many bitten souls,
walking by, bursting
is an avalanche, pouring
through the darkness: a dry ocean
inside the clouds.
Life is so generous
with its gifts, but these hands
like razors slaughter the sky
Bare feet on grass,
feels only the stones.
Who craves the perished sun? Do I?
Do I love for nothing but death?
To be blinded by ecstasy,
to feel the tears of wonder flow
to hunt for the colossal Self . . .
I walk through the dust-ridden morn.
The wind splits my shell:
It enters. It knows
Copyright © 1995 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Chicago Record Magazine” June 2017
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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