Hot Water Portrait: Translation

I said Reader,

There’s romance in the article of how-to-burn-a-bush, of dusk with highway; trains. Let me explain how the pull-cord gesture damns the overpass. Orpheus reached for it, and it was gone. There is, are too distractions, pink dusk descending.

West coast has been always less sensible and difficult to realign – the space, or lack thereof reassigns the tree limbs breeching what I assume with two canvas corners (created by pink fingers, Ls, before they shut down for the evening). Elephantine, on my drive, the letters on my lap, penned without glancing at the page. I hope these characters are recognizable. Writing at this hour of night is biting into my sleep. Dangerous dreams recorded at the bedside.

It’s as if the highway were hiding. It’s as if the whispers of a strip mall had anything at all to say to the burning bush, the one that shakes and groans. If only there still were birds, then the limbs would present or dissect the trembling trio once and for all: train, tree, bird. But for all that talk of finality, here is a good enough place to start.

Hot water. Opportunity. And conversation when the weather provides.

Anyhow, it’s raining now, first thunder thrown for months. April showers, they say…

Kind Regards,

Me.



*Jim Davis is a graduate of Knox College and now lives, writes, and paints in Chicago. Jim edits the North Chicago Review, and his work has appeared in After Hours, Blue Mesa Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Ante Review, Chiron Review, and Contemporary American Voices, among others. Jim will see two of his collections go to print in 2012: Lead, then Gold (unbound content) and Elements of Course: Crafty Abstraction (MiTe Press) www.jimdavispoetry.com