A U G U S T 2 0 0 0
YOUby Peter Davison
Hear Peter Davison read this poem (in RealAudio).
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Also by Peter Davison:
Best Friend (2000)
These Days (2000)
Falling Water (1998)
No Escape (1997)
On Mount Timpanogos, 1935 (1997)
Like No Other (1997)
"I Hardly Dream of Anyone Who Is Still Alive" (1995)
The Unfrocked Governess (1994)
The Passing of Thistle (1989)
The Obituary Writer (1974)
The Winner (1958)
An Audible Anthology
From beyond the borders of memory you seemed to
gaze, enfold, clothe me,
lift me: I was held, washed,
fed. On unsprung legs I swayed and
tottered. Your smile urged me into
walking. Your words urged me out
into words. Your scowl stunned and guarded me. You taught,
scolded, attended. And now, you vanish.
What dark seas must I canvass to
undrown you? How far have you drifted,
castaway? I yearn
across pathless waterlands for
a whiff of your remembered fragrance, a waft
of warm arms, the flick and murmur of
your speaking, the fall of your soft song,
the hushed kisses of your mouth.
Who could have thought you would ever so
immoderately disappear? Or imagine
that, no matter how hard I haul
on the ligaments of our fateful
connection, you could never possibly
Peter Davison is the poetry editor of The Atlantic. His poems in this issue will appear in his newest collection of poetry, Breathing Room, to be published by Knopf in September.
All material copyright © 2000 by The Atlantic Monthly Group. All rights reserved.