Forget Him by John Grey

Rained from the moon
glittery, silvery manna
melts all but
the lighted windows
of the houses.

Within, the surefire apparatus is silent.
Milk curdles on a sill.
A face channels its one rigid expression.

Perfect poison grips
the snake’s fangs
and sharp nails
rip this year’s flesh.

Love –
that still reverberating duplicity of spring –
sprouts dandelions instead.

And in the night’s wound,
a radio evokes with song –
salvages what lies
have spurred the eyes to reason.

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