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
upon each of their windowsills
of the moon
skies upon skies
birds, always returning
a jar of the ocean
a jar of honey
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
so that they can burn the nights
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.
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
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Three Poems by R L Swihart
- Saw Instrumental
- Two poems by Jim Burke
- The Pink Apartment
- An Evening in the Hamptons
- Two poems by Dalton Day
- On the way to Udhagamandalam II
- Eureka, California
- A Clip from Tomorrow
- Amsterdam II : Scarring the Plate
- Two poems by Maria Apichella
- Late Summer
- A Common Language
- Postcard Prose
- Travel Notes