By: Allison Grayhurst

In the hourglass I see a cloud
that greys the city. I see people at their
art shows, theatre shows and antique shops
blowing on their blankets in hopes of holding off
winter, in hopes of never looking inward or upward
at the purity of faith and the starkness of deep tears –
people who love their clever words, and their
commitment to no spiritual responsibility –
earth wearers with earth minds and blood
that does not flow but clogs the nestled spark of glory
endowed within us all.

I light my bed with the golden rays of bliss and intensity.
I am not walking on this floor. I am not as alive
as the garden growers or the children
who lose themselves in play, but I will
not align myself with the intellectual superficial
or harness my self-worth to their dreary looks
of ‘yay’ and ‘nay’.