IN THE MIST by John Grey

The treetops are clouded with mist.

Same as the waterway,

dampness sponging our curious faces

as it passes.

Why speak? Words too muffled.

And the haze follow us uphill.

Across field. The canvas of

an enormous painting

From the deep trench

of the world’s fiber catcher,

comes this molten lint,

blurring everything into the one dream.

Always mist, all the way

to the end of the world,

dulling, thickening, the air,

dunking my shirt, my trousers.

By the quarry,

the swamp,

one big laundry room

but no drier.

A secular experience

so why are you a ghost briefly?

Born. Alive. Dead.

The whole of creation in a day.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Sin Fronteras, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Plainsongs, Willard and Maple and Connecticut River Review