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devin wayne davis


of the sun, coming

through spaces between
double-stacked containers
traveling by train,

are, predominantly,
a white bird’s wings --
moving me

the cold fish
really can be a drag.

this heavy rhythm
rolls with a weight of waves; they

regularly crash
against cliff rock --
& land on my back.

cold spring

dawn, come
upon the rail;

as morning trains
continue to pull
in & out,

a freight
covers the station;

then darkness descends.
and mist --

sweat drips

we’re clear.


& complement

the sea-foam of someone’s home
has carried over boundaries:

adobe mud,
clay, gray, sage

the days
catch an eye --
flat, and half-dry.

nets have holes,

so many fish
wriggle --
streak away

silver tear
in this ocean

©2008 by devin wayne davis

devin wayne davis, once called "ink (or inc.)" in a seaside vision, has written well-over 2,000 poems; he likes concise verse. His work is printed in many journals, including The Sacramento Anthology: 100 poems, Sanskrit, and Poetry Depth Quarterly. He has read as a featured poet at major book retailers; he has addressed citizens and lawmakers on the northern steps of the California state capitol, and has read for annual poetry events at the Crocker Art Museum.

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