THE BIG ITCH
by John Grey
Tear at the scab
and a whole other wound emerges self inflicted,
When I look up
from a tiny trickle of blood,
I see the brown house next door
as an itch of grass and flowers
scratched by a neighbor
pushing a lawnmower.
And look at the sky somebody needs to get a fingernail
under those clouds,
pull them apart from the blue.
Nothing begins and ends with me.
Not even a simple hurt
from a fall
that thought a hard coating on the skin
would be enough
to straighten out the mess.
But not while that mower
scrapes at its current irritation
and the seamlessness of the heavens
is threatened by scattered cumuli.
No matter how things start out
they always end up as
what is happening to me.
Nothing's like it thinks it is.
The rest of the world, most of all.
Gyroscope Review - !24