By William Virgil Davis
riding by myself in Winter
using on my own in wintry weather via acres of land
abandoned through every little thing store the snow
trapped within the ruts of the road,
the moon damaged by way of the naked trees,
I have in mind the times whilst my brothers and that i could fall asleep
within the backseat at the method home.
this night, coming domestic, I remember
the faint mild at the dashboard maintaining my father’s face,
my mother’s gentle voice, my brothers asleep,
the moon operating one of the timber beside the car.
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Extra resources for Dismantlements of Silence: Poems Selected and New
His breath blurs and blows away in the wind. His snowman stands in our backyard. Then the game changes. He runs and, twisting in midair, he leaps and falls out full upon his back, winding his arms to make an angel, laughing, beginning to rise. Spent, he falls asleep in the snow, his arms still ready to rise. I step up to him and bend down to lift him from the shape he’s made, his image frozen in this snow, my mind. of Silence~43 44~Davis Winter Light All night through the dark the dark is falling.
On the street below your window, while you watch, no one moves, but there, imprinting the new snow, footprints appear. of Silence~27 28~Davis Driftwood Summer With boards on our backs and girls dug out of the sand, we walked miles of water and sun, following the waves. With bronzed muscles and bleached hair, we ate the air, devil-may-care to home and love. Evenings, under the moon, in the glare of driftwood flames, we sang and slept and made love on the sand. Each new day we arose, took up our boards, and went out to practice walking on water.
In the lower left-hand corner, sitting quietly beside a fallen wall, is the wife you took so long to find. The tall trees in the background, blown by wind, half-cover your father’s face. Your dog that died is sleeping under a broken bucket near the dried-up well. Your brothers are wrestling beneath the slow waters of the river. Your son’s laugh is hidden under a stone. The wind that is moving across the scene is speaking of all that you have seen, and whispering your name, your name. Dismantlements On a Hill in Crete Knossos stands on a hill like any other hill here.