To The Midnight Moon
By John Grey

It dangles like a medallion on the sky's black throat.
It's always in the frame, a dead thing shining.
It's the gleaming eye that watches itself being watched,
boasts so few footprints and nowhere the touch of flesh.
It's a strong-box of meaningless years
but still can stir the wolf’s blood.
It's like my nerves' chauffeur, dropping them
off in the dark places just beneath the skin.
It's a hand in the face of morning
barring it from my window.
When I'm thirsty, it pours me a glass of undrinkable light.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Orbis, Dalhousie Review and the Round Table. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Lana Turner and Hollins Critic.