Tuesday, January 5, 2016

Allison Grayhurst writes

 In League With . . .

Drive away the battle-weary heart 
as the guilt rises like smoke from a cigarette 
into a spring afternoon. 
It has ended as bones do with time 
in earth, cold, as the last maggot clings. 
And pride has expanded your belt 
as though it were a fetus, growing, demanding 
the best of your nourishment. 
Carry this on the knee of your cracked imagination 
and dispense with your volumes of hurt 
done to you by so many hands. 
For your tune is repeating and still your country grows. 
Candles and candles to keep alit so your enterprise 
of bitterness is warm with stirring. 
My eye has overlooked, 
and sometimes I ruin my joy 
by taking a step on your tiles 
so tormented and full of useless fury. 
Golden is the calling we were given 
but life-determining is the way we sway or twist 
to answer it. 
(And night is not the end.)
 Candles, Stree, Milan, Italy

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