Three Poems

by David Bankson

Pretense

That outline against the curtain,
brightened by moonlight, draft, pikebend,
could be any careful chaos:
A roommate’s incomplete manikin,
a showerhead spraying an ocean
like some bruised cloud
that can’t stop its downpour,
an open closet, a packed bag.
Our room stands at a solid body of lawn
that grows against another lawn
and on into country.

I recall its face.
I recall what we buried there.
Ragweed, memories.
A metempsychosis of a bronze age.
Dusk’s thin light dulls the air
until I can smell the remainder of impossibility.
It’s all pretense, but it’s sufficient for now.
Rain dilutes,
wisps of raincloud grow uncertain.
But deep down I know where,
and I feel it.

On Struggling for Originality

The rafters. The rain. The peonies.
The diaspora in the golden spring.
For now, every planet sounds like uncertainty,

every rotting log an incubator
unmade in the evening drought.
To ignore is to absolve;

to neglect is to destroy soil-patterns,
brown that dissuades from creation.
Even the closest point cannot be reached.

There is no freedom in the weight we shoulder
or the sympathy we reject–
what we see as brightness

is darkness that has been eclipsed.
There is a volume at which anything louder
starts making sense, a connection

now audible to our exposed ears.
To the peony, sudden sun is a moment,
but the sunbeam needs no time

beyond the present. Where we came from
is no longer us. Imagine this as a river.
As a forest. Composure means nothing

and space is farther than it appears.
Soon the whisper. Soon the river. Soon
the emergence of all we grip tight.

Dependency

a Golden Shovel poem

Dependency is a necessity, so
much so that what decides it is as much
reality as phantom. It depends
solely and entirely upon

broken glass and composition and a
metaphor of flowers despised by red.
Poetry is zoetic, while the wheel
rolls on without compunction, the barrow

carries and buries the dead, their glazed
eyes a beauty of their own. Still, with
clarity comes the promise of clouds, rain,
and the blinding reflection on water

to show you the truth — you’re here beside
everything you need, everything in the
world is at your fingertips, the white-
hot branding iron as soft as chickens.


David Bankson lives in Texas. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem contest, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, {isacoustic*}, Artifact Nouveau, Riggwelter Press, Five 2 One Magazine, and others.
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