At the Gate

      Beyond the bland suspension of a moment
             (still and queer and empty)
         We sip our tea and take our toast
              drained of life and envy.
5        A drunken angel at a harpsichord
              suspends upon a cigarette
         Some tattooed prayer of the Lord,
              some blank mystery as yet.
         An opal in a teardrop
10            confers what grief would keep;
         Purpure absolution drops
              in gutters at your feet.
         Starlight in a candle
              reddens the intruding hand,
15       Restless on the icy mantle
              where Life makes no demands.

 

From the collection "The Sword Inside"

Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]

More information available on gregglory.com.