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Dave Smith

Summer 1995

Fantastic Pelicans Arrive

By Dave Smith

Gray wind across the lake’s back comes raking, tiny sails of white foam, crest after crest, sun beating like neon against cold’s slash, solitary loon floating in the cove. Today […]

Summer 1995

Descending

By Dave Smith

Remember that tinfoil day at the beach descending on water the color of slate, the man descending, just a bald head like an emptied melon descending god knows where, same […]

Summer 1995

Quail

By Dave Smith

                for Charles Wright Recalling old hunts, we rake ourselves with hooks of briars along the bottom where a dog’s stiff. Field seeds fleck our cracking lips like blood, mouths moving […]

Summer 1995

Arising

By Dave Smith

Did he peek like a child where nippled sunlight poured, did he call from cradling dark a woman to come, did he brush off gravel, aware of himself, did he […]

Summer 1995

Nine Ball

By Dave Smith

My anger’s long, and the room of broken chairs in rows,spittoons with death’s brown beauty breeding its glue atop the stairs that clattered and turned you in where they waited, […]

Summer 1995

Field Dressing

By Dave Smith

No one ever forgets that ripe maggot smell of entrails laid on your fingers, the blood-steam rising to cling like weightless, sleet-bright seeds. But here earth hides its usual electric, […]

Summer 1989

Before Ground Roses

By Dave Smith

Idling at the new suburb’s intersection, he sees the red and white necklace of broken glass, startling as the uncontrollable skidding track of a life that abruptly ends where the […]

Winter 1985

Pillage

By Dave Smith

The sun has done its eternal damage, pine warped to the white, arthritic shins of men who once shouldered the hung come-alongs and galled harness, who led out the heavy […]

Winter 1985

Summer House

By Dave Smith

A rusted can opener, mouse droppings in the drawer, one closet containing a sweater, both elbows unraveling with colorless threads like divorce you heard about just before closing the other […]

Winter 1985

Pregnant

By Dave Smith

Think of the verbs by which they go: waddle, lumber, loll, shudder, slide, shuffle, wander—as if theirs is the aimless pulsing of summer-shallowed streams through the mountain’s sunless crowd of […]

Winter 1985

Ancestral Farmhouse

By Dave Smith

White, slope-shouldered, falling away in shade as the land falls, windows half-shuttered, odd glassy eyes in the cool morning of fogs.   The seam where each addition came is clear, […]

Winter 1985

Field Music

By Dave Smith

At duskfall haze layers each breast and hump of hill      gray as the dead’s combed hair,    and I walk, face thick with my day’s work ended by the tavern’s hour […]