Allison Grayhurst

Allison Grayhurst

How Like

How like the 

bright closed door 

and the pockets whose insides 

slice the fingertips. 

How like the muttering offended 

and innocence so easily lost, 

like the make-up of a clown.

How like 

cramped curiosity 

and the hurdle of the legend of the hero 

who is almost always an orphan, 

as if that enormous loss is the only pain large enough 

to make the hero whole. 

How like the nocturnal shouting soul 

and the half-hour games that burn that soul, 

useless and cold.

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