John Davis


Wide wings of geese and I’m done with lean wine
of April. Hands smell of lilacs—liturgy
of the coyote’s howl. Sadness, now gone, drifted in
like inheritance, disappeared with unpaid debts.
Blooms are prayers of cellos. More than once
birdsong has been in my blood. I came to the island.
Years happened. I smelled the stream. I listened
to rocks. Darkness dismantled the wind. It wrapped
its monk’s hood around leaves. Sound was gagged—
prisoner of silence. I discovered music in its night-things.
It was night, then night, then night. Now dawn.


John Davis is the author of two collections, Gigs and The Reservist. His work has appeared recently in DMQ ReviewIron Horse Literary ReviewOne and He moonlights in blues and rock and roll bands.



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