In beeswax leather, and in morning frost, I can find you still. Here, in the garden, beside the snow drifts that look like the sight of some ancient avalanche, where we lost three skiers last winter. I am waiting with a steaming mug of something cowardly. In Woods Hole, by the bakery that my grandmother … Continue reading Ode to Steadman
From this vantage, I see you of so missed childhoods, of the white canvas sails of Wild Harbor's rocking vessels. You would have painted her with watercolor on thick paper, and I with my pencil. Where the Knob extends out onto the sea, it is covered only by the sky and the flickering trail of … Continue reading To a Man With a Pipe, Unused for Years
In the morning, I'm sitting quiet in the kitchen. I just got back from the long night, in which the frames of motion ran like an old film reel, taking on an antiquated and magic technicolor grain, fading, and then all at once becoming real again. It was as if the light that came to … Continue reading I Returned for a Night to Andalou
Ryan Shockey Davis 