Two poems by Dalton Day

what I saw there

a barn with
a small tornado, spinning backwards
first thing in the morning

a bathtub filled with warm water

a porch with daffodils
growing through the cracks

twenty-four rooms,
upon each of their windowsills
a piece
of the moon

skies upon skies
with little
birds, always returning

a jar of the ocean
a jar of honey

a field,
sometimes gold
sometimes lavender, built
to catch the stars when they fall

airplanes made of paper

a brown piano
with a beehive inside

all of the tree stumps
swallowing the
so that they can burn the nights
with song

Tackle Box

Out in the desert the fisherman talked to me.
Called me Hookmouth.

He said, real southern:
What daguerrotypes the stars are!
What glowing ghosts!

He held a telescope to his eye. Strung moonlight through his beard.

I dug a hole for a dead hare I’d found. Snake bite.
Its brown fur was soft.
I wondered about sucking the bite.
And how often the hare had listened to the ground moving.

The fisherman still looked up at the night.
He said,
There’s planets up there, Hookmouth!
Spinning marbles! Big enough for your pocket!

A snake moved nearby. Dark rattle.

I see satellites! How slow those grey fish swim!
Galaxies! Squint to watch them flowers grow!

About the author

Dalton Day is from North Carolina, and always has been. He has hopped over many creek beds, cut his way through many thorn bushes,…

Read the full bio

Issue 17 · March 2013

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