Daniel Davidson

Last Poems

Imperative

1.

We walk and talk, shore filling the past.

To bring myself along
I dig my eyes into
the lap of liquid, what we've learned

is such an elegant poison
in pieces of elements, buoyed
by the warped and narrow walkways, the

curtain staring between us. Then to remember
our occupation, refrain, circumstance
around which everything happens
blank of water and muscle, where a heart
grasps the blood inside it, stillness
otherwise so common. Breathing credulity, a turbulent

condition for sight, a sign of touch
that "Spectator, of the Willing Participant", is part of you.

2.

The ships of sail in mourning washed
the feet of the sea, bread, cirrus, circuses
blanketing after dawn, and the birds following

each impose their directions. One light between us,
or two?, for our sprouting wings, for silence, for sleep
or sleepless daydreams purging the stones underfoot,
where falling proceeds, one step coming after to another.

3.

Bare embraces every earth, handwritten cornices
gleaming fictions, sweet, tasty entrances
borders every country life, whatever is pursued.

I've learned to believe when you describe the imaginable
when tracing the outlines of passing simplicity
a self-sealing break making room for another

listening, to the selves we've gathered.


Apart the crowd

Blink slowly you'll miss it
the certainty, the foliage
bending in imitation, increasing.

My days pass like dry leaves.

To ride in a vehicle of grass and earth
becomes simple, a glance of propriety
reaching deep into the covered ground.

Suspended three stories away
a disaster in a pocket of sound
here beneath our feet, my feet

participate in the future, when the speaking air
is as rich a set of grievances as silence
as this present memory is,
breaking with real knowledge

Rich like that.


Way flesh

Naked like dreaming
such a large explosion
one letting another
the entire scope, and the conversation
not stopping (almost procedural)
alone, whatever
follow your own testimony
the tiniest drum, the longest corridor
going into the wind, as you might, despite
sitting next to a beautiful girl ...
or are you in a hurry? And you?
To race with the speed of fire
the way flesh is like
something happening to me.


Convenience

You've strangled contented, I know
balance bewteen dulled razors
and the shores of a chasm.

On the way down, rocks point upward
darkened beneath shadow
like sails in the wind.

Alternately crossing into luster
where alternatives fall to pieces, habits
of optimism and regrets, cracking pencil-grey.

Thirty years later a bomb explodes,
entirely destroying an avenue
for the enjoyment of television screens.

The mess is the medium,
and as in all full-time occupations
we barely notice the difference.


Apostrophe yes

It happened after the fact, the perilous edge
time being memorial--but no risky joke
the name propelled to identify habitat, in a fashion
dilapidated vapors, surrogate classrooms
painted with clipboards all across the walls.

Time passed all around, and in its coalescence
was a calling of joy like consolation
everything turning leeward, off track and
into trees stronger than cars

spun around to the tune of dancing
stranger than generational habits
appearing quaint even before they've been captured
by the televisionradiopublishingfilm industry

in New Newer lobbies of crowds, pulling themselves
out into the same but similar world in crisis.


Now, other, after

Where is it, the bus you've been traveling
the corners and waiting, streets along
blankets, retrospection, libraries
of flowers and ferverent ledges in uneasy itinerary
iteration observed, bare there before you.

What is it to learn at birth
or to have, in the unrest of the streets,
no place at all except blindness.
I don't know who you are, here among everyone
the layers of innocence and youth

and corruption, except that each moment, every breath
reaches through the air of another person
so perfectly, indecent, ignorant of effects
like a recent memory of hunger.
I wish you were here, cradling the starlight out of the sky.

I have no answers, and expect none
no single, solitary story is likely to be enough
for me, laying its quiet head on a pillow ...
this is the larger part of any opportunity, even
the dictum of impermanence that gnaws at a flowering day

one color at a time, how it gets into the skin
and then into the ink, the ice there, and the warm pleasure.


Writing memory

Gauged by its fullness there was sentiment, sure
I forgot it was followed by a backdrop
and then absence, substance that distracted

I knew a finely sifted box of limestone and shell
had all the possible attentions
is lit twice by the same fire

when the streets are full, I can see
what fascinates and lures me in
a proven insinuation of value

tremendous, leaving me mesmerized. I can only
sit and watch in silence.

This is how long it takes, the sound at its core
will continue on. Rain in the sockets of shields
wind wrenching my arm, and the rest of habitation
that a junkyard claimed was next to nothing
something about why, and what was next on the agenda

acting with promptness, and ultimate persuasion.


untitled

Agreement batters between conclusions
a city of refusal, islands of distance
entire ranges, giants, harbor, events
a torn curtain within the real. The heat is excessive
in dreams, responsive, confused with iron, blinking

as you speak, dream-speech, nascence.
Memory is a different condition, pages and pages
voice a desire of unlimited remains
against the lifting and bruising. Remember
description, slipping through appearance

sentences, time and layers
bounded in rage, cage and war. Not a day
we are prepared to embrace, but coming back
a small crack in the door
a patch of light enters the veins

of our curious sifting ways
knots breaking the surface air
of aspiration, an anniversary of life
within what argument can recognize
sliding along the glass of separation.

The passages mingle like certain fingers
each drug store reception, hearing refrain
at home in sun and shade. To guide the door
along its hinges, hindsight of epistolary novelty
implied ascendance, passport of the world you live.

I've swum through it before, in aisles
of the eliminated globe, time permitting splendor
or the requirement to drift
in beautiful nights of persuasion
the arching up between titles

revealing an airy nation, nameless and content
unavoidable, the decline of distinction showing
a kind of elevation in the indefinite terrain.
Damage is not equivocal, or it rises unnoticed.
Given the chance to see, you hold still enough

for the water to tread beneath you
raised on a liquid diet, formed into
a variety of shapes ... the covers of tired magazines
possessing an overwhelming presence
the subject of composition

among the most stridently avoided
and no wonder, the predictable is just as safe.
Beneath the city, fire, and the cool tunnels
it looked like some weird horror film
but it was nature, birth on the brilliant screen

the surface flicker of hands on their backs
thought read in the faces of tradition
each unfurled care equal to the new
the examining wine of the hidden
reticent in the resting scenes, travelers

stopping to look, briefly.

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