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Tag Archives: Donavon Davidson
1 In the little green sheets suffering in sycamore crosses your mother is still alive. In the countless things she told you waiting to turn red you think you understand the lone black cricket drawing his bow, hidden behind the … Continue reading
Weathervanes became another silent voice of God. Another quiet escapement by staying in one place. Another lighthouse in a new world. Something without limbs hulking out of a garden of ropes. One cannot forgive such a thing in which there … Continue reading
There, the egg descends from oily strings, weaving a looking glass in the black mouth of a sun-beaten barn. There, the white moth flutters white towards itself, itself never to get out. A train behind the twilight rattles its seeds, … Continue reading
At five he could close a book and know it would not shorten anything. In a moment it takes to exhale, he would still outrun his father by appearing to be small, his feet swinging back and forth, slowly closing … Continue reading
To be a carpenter of empty chairs make shoes for every day of the week that are practical and torture evenly. Pile them into bewildering mounds, the months and years of empty calendars that have taken place without taking place. … Continue reading
Not a sound. That’s why I love them. Those fish who won’t come up for air. We are all learning how to move together. They with their shining knives haven’t invented. Me with my darkening every bed promises to give. … Continue reading