by John Grey
Persistent rain,
I open the curtains,
dunk my face
in the streetlight’s perforated glow.
This is the way
to infiltrate the outside,
with my nose against glass,
a yellow-eyed ghost reflection, and half a nugget for a chin.
From without,
I must look like
some crazed nighthawk,
in indeterminate pajamas, and three gold bars for a face.
I do nothing to prevent this.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Cantos.
January House Literary Journal 
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