Embedded Files
I Know Nothing I know nothing,nothing,rust on the tree,spider,a sump hole,ant mound. The leaves move visible air,strands of hair, tattered rag,the bent sound of a fly,the clover long past magenta,hushed greyready to spewsmall brown seeds. I know nothing;the fine hair on my face,the keen flush to a trace of wind.I am waiting to calm my heart. I know nothing.I am closer to dirt,the hole that collects moisture,the denser crowd of weeds and grasses.I’ll guess at the network of webshinged on the sides,threadbare.I can only guess. I know nothingthe shade of my hand,the boughs waveringgrey across the page. Leaves lift.Paper lifts.My eyelids weigh.I am breathing. I know nothing.Just this, just now.
Notes From The Cache Creek Journal Needlegrass.I have tamped my damp bed,deer huffed, and waited.My safe spot, near the grayed edges of downed saplingsstained and cut by beaver teeth,tongues, humming. The black bees iridescentare blue droning,pass heavily. The current bends the soundof compressing mud and wood duckshaving sexual encounters with flourish - as Cache Creek’sbanks sag and sloughpulling a new patinafor amphibians to delight in,to mate, to camouflagebeyond any shade of brown. Life brews,in view or unnoticed. A slowing of breath, mind, and movementreveals lavish abundance, in the laid over grass.
When My Arm Becomes a White Wing When my arm becomes a white wingdelicate hollow bones will bend,kite air. My white wide sleeve fans, opens,cloth catches high blue wind,and clouds over the cut fields. When my arm becomes an egret wing,I will curve my long neck down, lay my head against this bird heart,welling, filling,the faint sound, deep, and down. Safe,far off now. When my last step leaves the estuarytake hold of my wings.
Ab Davis lives in Sacramento, CA. where she writes with a small group of practicing Buddhist women. Her work has appeared in San Pedro River Review, Current Bellowing Ark Press, Big River Poetry Review, Willow Wept Review, The Han Shan Poetry Initiative, Pig Squash Press, and Decanto (UK).
Notes From The Cache Creek Journal Needlegrass.I have tamped my damp bed,deer huffed, and waited.My safe spot, near the grayed edges of downed saplingsstained and cut by beaver teeth,tongues, humming. The black bees iridescentare blue droning,pass heavily. The current bends the soundof compressing mud and wood duckshaving sexual encounters with flourish - as Cache Creek’sbanks sag and sloughpulling a new patinafor amphibians to delight in,to mate, to camouflagebeyond any shade of brown. Life brews,in view or unnoticed. A slowing of breath, mind, and movementreveals lavish abundance, in the laid over grass.
When My Arm Becomes a White Wing When my arm becomes a white wingdelicate hollow bones will bend,kite air. My white wide sleeve fans, opens,cloth catches high blue wind,and clouds over the cut fields. When my arm becomes an egret wing,I will curve my long neck down, lay my head against this bird heart,welling, filling,the faint sound, deep, and down. Safe,far off now. When my last step leaves the estuarytake hold of my wings.
Ab Davis lives in Sacramento, CA. where she writes with a small group of practicing Buddhist women. Her work has appeared in San Pedro River Review, Current Bellowing Ark Press, Big River Poetry Review, Willow Wept Review, The Han Shan Poetry Initiative, Pig Squash Press, and Decanto (UK).
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse