by Allison Grayhurst
I smelled the afterglow
of these tricky toys
that bent the branches low
and drove the dreams from my eyes.
I saw you sitting, curled up in pain
and singing low of things that had no name.
I know the answer’s blank as a January sky
and the lights that flicker
from door to door are not for me to understand.
I felt a paleness in my hands –
my fingers were worms, struggling out from
the hardened earth. Being alone is like a window
looking out. And guilt is good as the first step
then stops you from taking anymore. I am a rider on
a rocking horse. I caressed the edge too many times.
The curtain is open but nothing new walks by: Love,
love, it has to keep on . . .