Flying over Desert

Mountains behind us,
the land spreads out, flat and brittle,
like a discarded snakeskin.
And yet the snake is down there somewhere.
For here and there, the earth twitches,
the sand seems to slither.

And the landscape is unchanging.
Time flakes off in small, shimmering pieces
as we glide from west to east.
Each shard briefly catches light before dissolving.

The sun is out there, finishing its rounds,
It drags the leftover hours behind it
like a long, dry tail.
Below us, the desert
is now a clean, unblinking face.
There are no clouds and no shadows.
Has anyone ever lived
inside that loveless expression.
It is all so visible…too visible.
It arouses my suspicions.
It reminds me of airplane food
arranged to resemble nourishment.

I wait for the familiar to rise up,
for this metal chrysalis to brush against some
old version of me.  Not revelation.
But maybe an indication that I haven’t
entirely been abandoned by my own story.
But the ground stays mute.
The sky knows.
But it’s too clear, too blue, to speak.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Willow Review and the Pennsylvania Literary Journal. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Plainsongs.