Today's poem is by David Ray Vance



Wooden lattice outside a window creaks
empty vines, purple iridescence of pigeon necks
folded in sheets and moon spilt.

The way willows off Campbell Street hung
naked, winters heavy as this one
branches angling for roots entirely elsewhere.

Out of such turning inward, solitude bends,
widens onto dimly lit dwellings
past which voices pass and are taken.

Fragments lived now or some other time
slivers of sun spiring the translucent
ice-sheathed glass.

Skin of this skin, body of these bones
submerged in poor, indifferent places
the most hushed hour answers.

Copyright © 2007 David Ray Vance All rights reserved
from Vitreous
Del Sol Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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