At the edge of the fields,
color omnipotent,
a spigot of light
in the dusk diorama;
the illusion
reminds me of Turner,
a water-color expanse
that bathes me
in time anamorphic,
opens rhizome portals
to remembered friends,
slowly shuffled experiences;
soon the dark
will return me to
my ordinary life,
that tired blend
of dinner, television and sleep;
until then,
I stand, wide-eyed,
on a veranda facing west,
my eyes and the horizon,
the very outlines of the sun.


© by John Grey.
Used with the author’s permission.