He brought a few angels to his desk
a few angels with confidence
over the horizon. He welcomed bandits
from the mountains, liars
from lying contests, echoes of owls,
clods of dirt he threw in dirt wars.
He never smoothed them but traced
the stains on his jeans and face.
Shadows became lives. They leaned
forward, listened to the whispers
of syllable and rhyme. His words rode
horses. His words hid in murals
when thieves came. His words
hurried with secrets when spies
discovered his aliases. He played
possum inside pencils, hustled
stanzas from lamplight, blossoms,
frost, fortunes inside music from the oboe
down the street running scales.
He mourned phrases he left on the page
said he would see them in the next world
or the next poem. He was war-weary
with the swag of sentences that jaywalked
through line breaks, but he welcomed silence
from the graveyard and silence in first light.
Always he was a lover of hunches and hints
of gifts and kisses the century gave him.
About the Author
John Davis is the author of Gigs, Guard the Dead and The Reservist. His work has appeared in DMQ Review, Iron Horse Literary Review and Terrain.org. He lives on an island in the Salish Sea and performs in several bands.
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