Two Poems
BRAD DAVIS


July

A stone patio,
a hummingbird's

whir—the seen
and unseen—fill me

and I am not
the heavier for it.

I bear, beyond
these summer cottons,

only light, a memory
of light, images

of the weighted real
fading out or

into ideas, arguments
durable as the words

framing them.
Like these that I

pass to you—all of July
in a blur of wings.






From the Inside

Picture a room, the walls entirely
of glass, large as a planet, full
of seasons, lakes, forests,
tides, towns and cities, and
where door and doorjamb kiss,

neither light nor shadow, seamless
as a wall, no knob or hinge—
I passed into this room 
through that door, and it closed 
behind me with a click

I took for a snapping twig,
and spinning around to see
who or what followed me in,
there was no one, nothing
but a stand of ancient

hemlocks in the corner of the yard.
The ways in, as innumerable
as the places we arrive—
and here we are, you and I
in this mid-sized city

facing each other across
this intersection and waiting for
​a light to change, a beep 
to launch into its permissive
rhythm. And what else? What next?










​BRAD DAVIS' most recent books are OPENING KING DAVID and SELF PORTRAIT w/ DISPOSABLE CAMERA. He also edited the anthology SUNKEN GARDEN POETRY 1992-2011 (Wesleyan, 2012) for Hill-Stead Museum's 20th anniversary of the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival. Brad counsels, coaches, and teaches at Pomfret School (CT) and is an editor for the online poetry journal Theodate (theodate.org). The two poems in this issue will appear in a new book forthcoming in the Poiema Poetry Series from Cascade Books.

The Adirondack Review
SPRING 2014