Bridge at midnight,
swaying like a hammock
just the wind
that's rocking in it.
And the ghost of
that old Buick
rumbles over wooden slats,
drunk boy behind the wheel.
Damn, that car can't see,
one headlight blinking,
crashes through the railing,
topples down into
the slow brown water,
a splash so big
the spray near slaps the moon.
Bridge at one a.m.,
tranquil as a hammock,
a year old drunken tragedy
quietly sleeping it off.
A BRIEF HISTORY OF OUR TIME
Your eyes still speak of what they were.
Kisses follow suit, warm as a sailor home at last.
You paint your nails a color they clearly remember,
as pink as your checks in winter.
Clothes tend toward the more comfortable
but even your sloppy t-shirt, tattered jeans,
keep their date with fashion.
And just holding you
is time travel made to order.
I love the blur our closeness brings.
Is it today? Is it years ago?
Your hair's no calendar.
It falls across your face
as it has always done.
Nor is your touch
a guide to place and time.
Truth is, you will never grow old
for as long as you once were young.
PHOTOGRAPH OF YOU
Time has removed itself from the rest of time
It is floating like a photograph in the tips of fingers
It centers on beauty, holds there like eyes
Time can't get going again until I slip
the snapshot back into the album.
But it's not impatient. Besides, it' s been regular so long
And love may well be the only thing that it defers too.
For up to now. forever was time's province.
But now it's looking where I'm looking
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit, with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and the Coe Review.