Two by John Grey

RESTLESS

Other countries are.

I am not bolted to America

as this one is or that one is.

I can catch a flight,

be in Canada inside the hour.

Or in Mexico in maybe four.

I'm not condemned to this street,

this town, this state, this anything.

The ocean at my door is nothing.

My loving you doesn't prevent me crossing it.

Sure I can't speak French or German

like a native

but who wants to be a native anyhow.

My passport's in order.

I've money for the plane, the hotel.

I could be a Scottish fishing village,

a Moroccan bazaar,

a Japanese theme park...

that's what you have here,

a guy with the potential

for being somewhere else.

You think that without stakes in the ground,

there is no ground,

that where you are

is where you have to be.

You call my name

but no louder than Helsinki

calls my name.

You make a home for me.

But I look at a map

and see no homes.

THE DOCTORS AT THE ASYLUM

Imagine the sun is a blank page.

And your pen is your eyes,

too dazzled to see

let alone write.

Think of a lover's glowing skin

and your blind fingers

struggling to create a body

with nothing more than touch.

But think of that sun again.

It's a ball of fire.

Even if you make connection,

you still burn up.

Back to your lover,

how cool her heat,

and the flame your head must make of that.

Give us your life story,

even though it seems

pen on paper won't work for this.

Pretend we're the pages,

we're the lovers,

your anger is your writing implement.

That's right, lunge at us

as far as your chains allow.

Feel the links pull,

rip across your flesh.

Rough steel on raw skin.

That's how we tell our story.