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Contributor: John Grey

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The world I'm sure
started out as something else.
Maybe as a child's plaything.
Or the target in a shooting gallery.

In my day to day existence,
I see signs of it having been a bounce house
or a cuckoo poking out of a clock
on the hour.

I'm like an archaeologist in that regard.
What's that embedded in my life
if not evidence of a gigantic steam iron
or the biggest peanut that ever existed.

This is not a world
that got where it was
by starting out as a rawer,
more simplistic version of itself.

No, this is a world that was a diadem.
And a catalogue. And a gigantic black swan.
It was a much-kicked soccer ball.
It was a clown's red nose.

The trouble with geological science is
that it's hidebound by proof.
My discoveries are based on
the first thing that pops into my head.

The world was once an acorn.
It was this guy who goes into a bar.
A hawk. A revelation. A boom.
A dog biscuit. A recipe for pea soup.

The world got where it is
by being illogical.
There'd be no place for me in it

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John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review, Thin Air and North Dakota Quarterly with work upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.


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