The Summer I Spent On The Atlantic Coast
if not for the fact that we keep getting lost / we would have forgotten stars / forgotten making
fools out of the little holes in our hearts / sometimes / i see the sky & / sometimes the sky sees
me / just me / & the sudden quiet / I keep the rest in between the cloth / the sheets / holy lover /
body of dust / bearing flowers / two hands / case of beer / my teeth become small suns / I smile
oh bright drunken rapture / you ever see a light / instead of a thought? / keep filling your head /
until you forget what it looks like / how light leaves a room at dusk / how air leaves the lungs and
moves the other air in the room / how there isn’t a sail without wind & no wind without a sail /
friend in august, friend in summer / big, heaving mess that god is / a thief / returning home / i
hope the way i see you again will be like this / i hope the way we remember you is like nothing
Eight Years, And Reviewing An Inbox After Them
so step one is break your legs open, let the fire out of them
& even if the question is wrong, if the way god is a thief
becomes moot, I’m wondering where I am supposed to walk now.
hail Mary or something. incandescent vs daylight, I think.
tomorrow we drive to Galveston to find out, Friday it is on
to Belton, into dirt and the last time we found ourselves there
& I hope the way this works is like this: communion, glances backwards,
the way your mother reminds you that no good comes past 10.
in the years before, a parked car & sneaking out
the way the lake in Texas was a gift,
the way you found
Elly screaming, wanting to know where
all this blood came from.
Untitled 1, A Series On A Friend
I got back into town & saw boy, on leaves, out side my house who
leans over & whispers ain’t not a shame I’m gone, don’t miss me just like that
I wonder who, if in the instance I actually stop dreaming about him
will take that place & this fall different friend & me, we move into the same
house, again, same as last fall & when I make dinner, same dance & wine
glass, same everything, I’m then remembering how it works: the body melts , the lungs
dry & I’m on the phone , on the driveway & now remembering the sun, from
the roof burning good and purple in dusk when we sit there,
when the light at last drops off of his mouth. now I ask myself as I fall
asleep, do you remember the metal box & how heavy it was , can you
hear, don’t miss me as it rings off the hill in Texas, rings off the headstone,
peels off your ear, like it don’t mean much, not much at all.
Davis Land is from Texas and makes Alien Mouth, a journal. Find them at davisland.info