Foster Davis

At three o'clock
On a winters day,

The bells of Saint Timothy
...

Warm dry puffs,
A prehensile wind,
Stroke a graying beard,
Lift a fragile fringe of hair.
...

We knew.
We did have a clue.

So, in the stew
...

I sing a song late of frustration,
Pulling thorns from a thin-skinned back and breast.
While, poor me, I chide my introspection.
A real man would blow this off with a jest.
...

I crouch before this fallen saint,
Relieved the race is run.
I rest my arms upon my knees,
The rage within me done.
...

Gloriously abounds
The impassioned sounds
Of a tipsy urban cowboy.
...

Handy planks of crimson fiber,
Split and torn, a rending of essence.
All form mauled in a mire of viscous disinteregation.
The darkening pungent flows,
...

In supplication you reflect each Sabbath
To review your sallies with revulsion
Sanctuary secured
Sobriety solemnized
...

A fearther of thought abandoned,
No longer to soar, dive or glide.
Now fallen away, discarded,
A molting of mind in its time.
...

Stars along the far shore drip their light
Back across the black glass to the pier.
I hold up my hand but their light
Does not illuminate.
...

The streets of pea gravel do criss and cross here,
No lines or stop signs, just bottles of beer
Thrown in front yards, they crack the veneer
Patched by old folks, kept in by fear.
...

The page is naked,
The pen engorged;
My mind is bake'ed,
No epics forged.
...

Heartfelt dreams
Are old wishes we have held
...