Sky goes from blood spill to stain,
clouds from faces to shreds of flesh.
Sun trolls the horizon,
before dipping below its own slashed throat.
Shadows creep in.
Stars keep their distance.
The new moon is no more than a perverse grin.
I am alone in the house,
staring out the window.
diverted by these unnaturally
natural phases of the solar system.
Meanwhile, the floorboards creak.
There’s someone on the stairs.
The eyes of paintings glance
from side to side.
A wisp of white flows through
The parlor piano plays.
All is well on this side of the glass.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.