Poetry - Issue 17 | March 2013

Two poems by Dalton Day


what I saw there

a barn with
a small tornado, spinning backwards
first thing in the morning

a bathtub filled with warm water

a porch with daffodils
growing through the cracks

twenty-four rooms,
upon each of their windowsills
sit
a piece
of the moon

skies upon skies
with little
birds, always returning

a jar of the ocean
a jar of honey

a field,
sometimes gold
sometimes lavender, built
to catch the stars when they fall

airplanes made of paper

a brown piano
with a beehive inside

all of the tree stumps
swallowing the
sunlight
so that they can burn the nights
with song

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About the author

Dalton Day is from North Carolina, and always has been. He has hopped over many creek beds, cut his way through many thorn bushes, and stumbled through many fields of moonlight. He has never ridden in an airplane before, but he’s watched many birds, with fingers outstretched. Even though he can’t play the banjo, he wishes he could. You can find his work in Nib Magazine and Used Furniture Review. Visit his website.

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