A Poem by John Grey

A fish-bone.

A rooftop.

A color.

But not the bustle of the sidewalk.

The clamor of the streets.

Not a bedroom window

shuttered against all breathing.

Not a different color.

Or a separate mood.

A rooftop.

One after the other.

A warm summer’s evening.

Red for passion. Blue for kindness.

And someone with me,

wearing a little of both.

But that fishbone…

who’s been eating fish up here.

Not a diary,

Not an addiction.

Nothing dreary –

in the sky, in the head,

or any place.

Just a gentleness.

A carefully thought-out touch.

And a view of the neighborhood

for an hour or more

until we’re both called down

by some loud voice below.

Until then.

A couple atop the world

as we know it.

Not some others.

Must be us.

Letter From the Editor: I Love My Pussy

Letter From the Editor: I Love My Pussy

Hope That Comes

Hope That Comes