Tim Grey

Tim Grey is a writer from Mel­bourne, who works a jour­nal­ist, pho­tog­ra­pher and edi­tor. He’s also part of The Red Room Com­pany, where he helps cre­ate, pub­lish and pro­mote poetry in unusual ways.




“it bun­dles in the man­grove, caulked
on water­line. the ety­mol­ogy incom­plete;
black and clear below. 

a sec­ond beer swims and fiz­zles
with rep­e­ti­tion. sun­rise pan­ics and
spills like breath or my letter. 

hair like hair; my hand drip­ping out
like your hand or my hair. red quartz
lay like leaves every­where. don’t 

amer­i­can jets curl and wake
us, their hands the def­i­nite arti­cles
that knit the map to land. 

wood unrav­els a pro­le­tar­ian scent,
water burns a bag in the earth,
under­neath. we wait. 

hematite raft climb down and go
some­where secret. busts in the ash-sand
pecu­liar grass wav­ing a grid 

on the sea-bed, the half moon
on a gorge. say noth­ing but the sand-path, which
is all the word means: sister”



flat sun­light trans­ports its late sticks to that other, bees
plumb and phase     , med­dle with trans­parency; the lip
of smell. sun­light palls, a bridge through sub­stance   parted
              spring is mouth in her small pri­vacy. she watches
girls float on the asphalt pause, pool between con­vent and
Brougham, imag­ine they’re unseen.  iron fenc­ing clots and
weaves.                 a fair­lane slows to boat. from the facil­ity
above, the west­erly fum­bling at the win­dow, grass­lands
pressed against almost, munic­i­pal. the dryer wets the walls. 

                                                           small lan­guage of her
shop­ping clos­ing on the bench. the elevator’s every zone