One morning floating
on the surface of water.
A spider
newly, from a deep blue
I could never find,
born.
Sometimes I think, crawling out of the dark,
simply falling into a hole
never to escape.
Even then there was the difference
of being alone and lonely.
*
I called B, the tradition
of diving into water close to another
without hitting them,
on the phone, he said
was still alive.
When the clock broke,
I was happy to hear,
not even he could remember
if there must have been,
hanging dead from a tree,
at least five black birds.
Even then there was the difference
of place and placement.
*
Of blossoms, tethered in their falling,
the appearance of strange fruit,
we never thought, inventions
of acquired taste,
for a single moment
and went off, in our remaining mirrors,
to dig wells.
*
It happens every day.
The wind, from the missing pages of a pool,
tears a photograph
into the sky and I
am, among all things
flying, tied for a moment
one morning, floating
with the voice of a mouse
in the long tunnel of a snake,
surviving on the surface
of a hole,
saying how close,
to getting out,
we came.
Donavon Davidson’s poems have appeared, or are soon to appear, in: Pirene’s Fountain, Oak Bend Review, The Montucky Review, Spork, 3:AM, Anti-, Arch, Anemone Sidecar, Pedestal, WordRiot, MiPOesias, Stirring, Evergreen Review, Barnwood, and many others. He received his MFA from Goddard and currently lives in Vermont where he teaches writing at the Community College of Vermont.
