John Davis

After being punched in the face
by the wind
no wonder the night
has a big black eye
puffed-up, swollen
and the moon
slicing scars across that face
sharp blades of light
resembles a knife fight
or a bare knuckles brawl.
Any shadow dumb enough
to move among the dew
has tripped and lost its way
in the scratch of blackberry briars.
A break in the storm is proof
the world is weak.


Day arrives hung over
ready for the hours to amplify.               
Those who return with old hurt
ease into the sun.
The rock apologizes to the bruise.
The dried-up creek forgives the water.