Canonicals: Love's Hours

by David Radavich

© 2008 by David Radavich and Finishing Line Press


Words crawl
into bed with me

and speak of you
even though
you are not here

and the morning
shines alone

even then

one is grateful
for gods who appear
when summoned

or not

as the bedsheet

I lean against

a world raucous
in bomb-blasts, rapings,
another bankruptcy for greed

even then

words creep in
through the window

thinking of sun
shining equally in your face



How much
would you give

to open a magic tome
and find the remedy for what

you are suffering?

Ideally, two white pills,
a shot, even a suppository
supposing it works.

A face

that looks you
blue in the eye and says,

“It will get better.”
“You are fundamentally sound.”

So much within
the pages

of a book you imagine

having been able
to write

like an angel
whose wings touch

earth every thousand years.



Vouchsafe me a poem
for the morning.

Before the sun
rises and

all demons
have departed

a simple song of

that trees
will shake when

leaves fold
their golden hair

waters fleece
the ground waving

a new skin

and you

open my heart like
a scythe

cutting home



Its stomach brushes ground
as by long acquaintance,

one foot then another, one leaf,
slow digestion, eyes alert

like high-beams
in the wind-swept night,

hard against the air yet telling
stories as a stained-glass

window, victory
over hastening death,

comrade of dust and mud
and golden squares like armor

glinting whenever sun
arcs its sacrifice—

just so I think of you
unfolding a yellowed piece

of paper, words
you never meant to say

crawling their careful
way into my bone-frame,

softer than
the moon starting

to curl
into dawn