Separate Lives by Glover Davis

ABOUT Glover Davis

Glover Davis, Professor Emeritus of Creative Writing at San Diego State University, has published the following books of poetry: Bandaging Bread, August Fires, and Legend. He has published in many journals including The Southern Review, Poetry, The New England Review, and The Journal. He lives in Fresno, California, and is working on another book.

Pecan Grove Press

Separate Lives by Glover Davis

ISBN: 978-1-931247-36-8

$15

About Glover Davis’s previous books:

“A very strong rhythm is at the heart of every poem and Davis focuses so clearly and powerfully on the natureal particulars in a landscape or experience that the reader almost feels the theme or concept in the piece is his own discovery. The poems have nuance and resonance and reward several readings.
Christopher Buckley in The Chariton Review

“Davis has an original style that reminds me, really, of no one else: already he has mastered a manner of contemporary dream-vision that seems all his own.... ‘Tense, disciplined and sapient.’ I can’t think of a better phrase in which to describe the accomplishment of this excellent book.”
—Louis L. Martz in The Yale Review

Separate Lives by Glover Davis

We searched for a bar where brewery workers drank.
We strolled down streets where walls trembled with flowers,
with bougainvillae, honey-suckle, wisteria.
Picked leaves and blossoms stuck like paint or turned
so soft and fat they crawled across your palm.
You smeared them on your pants and sighed and went
on looking for a door whose inset glass
distorts the faces shining through.
When your feet began to throb you pulled a sock
from your right foot; the bruise was blue and flecked
with oil and we would sit for hours on a curb.
You wound ace bandages on ankles, knees
and wrists until at last you stiffly rose
and led us into streets you’d never seen
before, streets whose oak doors were bolted shut.
We scrambled up a slope and crept through yards.
Whole families, bent above their plates, would turn
at once like deer and stare into the dark
beyond the seperating glass where white
shirts passed as ghostly robes and fear
of what we were, of what each one could be
moved on their faces lit by candles, bulbs,
the charcoal glowing in the metal trays.
At last we found the street and as we walked
the houses changed—adobe, Spanish tile.
This could be Mexico, California, Spain.
This could be anywhere for homeless men.
I hoped that you would find that bar but knew
you wouldn’t, knew that we would roam
these strange, familiar streets until the dawn.
That place where men were brothers as they drank
away the afternoon was like a song
on a jukebox lined with tubes of rising colors.


 

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