BY ADAM P. DAVIS
Interim
As thunder waits for lightning,
moonrise for gloaming, spruces
for snowfall, naked maples
their cherished April,
I’ll wait for you, intrepid refugee.
By the spines of summer creeks,
the skins of frozen ponds,
I’ll bide the breathless seconds
in the windowed warmth of airports
and the sightless gloom of subways,
on corners of familiar streets
between cracking sidewalk squares.
On sofas and swivel chairs,
bar stools, porch swings,
I’ll linger in the sun and shade
and in every shadowed kingdom
without border or army.
Between the chambers of the heart,
between eclipses of the ribs,
I’ll wait for you.
Until the watches freeze.
Until all faces turn to skulls.
The final bursts of stars.
Here, in the deserts of a coffin,
in the oceans of a womb.
We Sailed into a Saffron Sky
Once your muffled footsteps
pierced the thickets of my sleep,
I ached to see your moonlit face,
to hear the anthem of your voice.
On black-capped waves you ferried me
straight into your embrace.
Our fingers, tributaries, fused.
Your gaze decanted into mine.
We glided to a nearby dock,
tiptoed onto a fishing boat,
and sailed into a saffron sky.
Over silver city lights we rose,
rowed the rapids of the stratosphere,
dove into lakes of empty space,
played hide-and-seek with asteroids,
bounced on countless minor moons.
We had no need for gravity.
When we neared the closest star,
its blue corona blinded me.
I searched for you through icy tears
and wept each measure of your name.
I tumbled back to Earth alone,
plunging into silent seas.
I slipped out quick and rudely
from the tender arms of dreams.