by Allison Grayhurst

The dash at the jugular

makes the wild stars sob, thrusts a hymn

skyward, and over the hills

a drowned frog sways

in a puddle all alone.

Forever is the fame

of the storyteller and the mask.

Forever is watching the zodiac turn

and the thumb nails crack,

is killing a smile after a

stranger passes and hiding

our wounds from the mirror.

Over the city the caged sun rises.

And the wings we are born with have

all been buried in the marrow of the land.

I feed, the flame feeds and so do the innocent.

Some day the clocks stop and God will be seen

in every beast and in every pavement crack.