Snow falls, we are cast off from friends and neighbors, skin blue, our boots too deep for forward progress. A wind-slapped hermitage begins with hands rubbing, eyes watering, breath lingering on the lips like fog. Winter dates count down, take daylight with them, until they most resemble graves. We are both the mourners and the dead.
About the Poet:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Stand, Washington Square Review and Floyd County Moonshine. Latest books, “Covert” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the McNeese Review, Santa Fe Literary Review and Open Ceilings.
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