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Vol. I
Issue 4
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Mornings
By Allan Johnston
She is drowning in a jumble of cloves—
a hard, hot, leaching. No indication
of the breaks between daylight
other than this rushing seeming
adjutant everywhere:
suddenly the birds are violent;
it is their singing world;
a light finality fathered,
humid and forgetful.
The skin of daylight bends to the earth;
sun curved on a wall.
A lot of sky, these transpiring vagaries
over the formless: the
rhythm, sky, blue, in
blur, washed out in white grey suck of
color, moist and heated like all
days before the sun takes wisdom—
a monsoon of lust, the best missing.
Copyright © Allan Johnston
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Allan Johnston has published one book of poetry. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, Poetry East, Rhino, Weber Studies, and California Quarterly. He has won a fellowship in poetry from the Illinois Arts Council and has been a finalist for the New Letters Poetry Awards and the Roberts Writing Foundation awards. Originally from California, he now lives near Chicago and teaches writing and literature at DePaul University and Columbia College.
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