Two Poems
Ian Davisson

from Triple Dream


i go to walk my,& mywhile later say to her

i take my time to,& toof what laid out here&.

of what laid out here,being feltcalled for more

in the meantime,some timebinding& will apply

to me i think,& thinkwaitthinking

something,improvisedawakenedlast night

likethrowing himself upon a grenadeupon titanic grass fields


inthe ways

Her mouth opens"A pause, a rose,

"A pause, a rose,

the sum of us


dreamingof nature

from Taking a Picture of the Infamous Liz Woodward

Liz Woodward, get out of your Longchamp lamb-trimmed sweater, and your half-torn skirt.
Get out of your clawfooted tub with your wet hair and your dripping and your stained feet.
I want a girl with no bones who is willing to sing songs while I am sleeping.
Get out of your body (I have constructed something), and wear (now you must) your quiet costume.
I want you to understand,
Liz Woodward, that this is not you -- I have taken a picture of the infamous Liz Woodward
and the girl I have found is on every postcard in the Latin Quarter, with her skirt up
or her two hands on a wine bottle, and not you, white, wizening, sick, somehow,
medicated today, my gold-lipped Liz Woodward, because I know this girl, and
she is sleeping in a warm blooded river, she is sleeping along the bank in a tent full of newspapers
and shopping bags and pages from old books, because it is cold in Paris this time of year (by this time
I have already left) and the multicolored womb of the heart of Liz Woodward, sunk and buried
in the riverside concrete like a grey box full of the first breath she ever took, born not naked
but clad in a fur-lined secret many colored coat, beats easier now that she is at rest, respiteful ,
subdued, and she is not sure to move until hands are laid upon her.