Late Autumn


A flower shatters in my hand.
Rose petals scatter across the lawn
like drops of blood,
like my blood,
by the back stoop, those petals
lacerated like lips,
fluttering gently as if trying to pronounce words,
as light attempts to guide them home
the conversation almost audible.

The wind is
the wind to come,
temperature drops from gentle pinch to crucifixion nail.

The transfiguration begins at ground level,
lines severed by elision,
my wrists punctured,
air churning
red all around me,
a copy of a copy of a copy,
a miracle in the warming stages
when all else is beginning to go cold.


Late Autumn

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Front Range Review, Studio One and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Naugatuck River Review, Abyss and Apex and Midwest Quarterly.
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