Buckley’s Cave

By John Grey

The wind has a mouth.

It’s the opening of a cave.

Follow it

past bats that throb like tonsils,

stalactite teeth,

and leaking steams of chilly spit.

The wind has a gut

like the rest of us,

so deep in darkness,

so raw, so riled up,

all that it can do is blow.

*

Its intestine is

grotto after grotto,

descending past its frozen lungs,

its iceberg heart.

Keep going

by where skinny sunrays

ping off crystal,

bubbling acid pools.

*

Descend into

the coughs, the splutters,

the belches, the beats,

to where the stone dead

feels most like

a living thing.

*

The wind would rather

toss your hair around

some other place.

So go to where

it never would expect you.

Step into its crude beginnings.

Roll around its bestial belly.

Bluster a little yourself,

but without the rage, without the wallop.

Show wind that anyone can be wind.

___

John Grey is an Australian born poet, playwright, musician, US resident (Providence, RI) since late seventies. Works as financial systems analyst. Married with no children. Collects books by classic horror writers from the late 1800s, early 1900s and early copies of Mad Magazine. John is widely published and holds many Pushcart Prize nominations, recently in Xavier Review, White Wall Review and Writer’s Bloc with work upcoming in Poem, Prism International and the Cider Press Review.



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