Poetry

The Truth Is
by John Grey

I prefer obscure sources.
I want to lift up a rock
and find the truth there
or discover it at an internet site
out of Ulan Bator
or maybe as a signal
my toothbrush pulls in
from outer space
or down in the cellar
as a slip of diary slid
behind the storage jars
or up in the attic,
maybe as a boa feather
falling out of
Grandma's wedding dress when shaken.
I want nothing from newspapers
or books or t.v.
I want to unfold an oak leaf,
read a bird's eye,
turn on a flower and just
watch and watch.
Give me the end of the world
in water spiraling down a drain,
the meaning of life
in a bus stop.
Let the rest of the world
rave on about how
the truth is out there.
I want to whisper softly
to the simplest of objects,
so what's it doing in here.