Two Poems


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 ( The two poems in this issue will appear in a new book forthcoming in the Poiema Poetry Series from Cascade Books.

The Adirondack Review