Posts by davidsapp

I Could Be Charlemagne

By on May 19, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

I could be Charlemagne. If I examine the plat, Lines and measures survey So many feet from here to there, Staked with orange, florescent paint, My realm of house, yard, wood, This soil, the worms, wasps, rabbits, These wildflowers, my vassals, Courting deferentially each summer, These trees, all bow to me. Absurd! Actually, the wind Possess these boughs — the wind, Pillaging the scene of the Pacific, Conquering the Rockies and Sierras, Marching cyclones across Nebraska. During calm days of respite, The wind away invading Appalachia, I could be Charlemagne, My reverie of sovereignty...

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The Blurring of Edges

By on Mar 3, 2019 in Poetry | Comments Off

Much younger, first acquainted With certainty, it tasted as crisp And tart as a green apple, But its edges became precise, Interlocking gears, a vast machine. I governed impeccable itineraries, I tallied every petty minutia, Mortgages, insurance, taxes, Attempting to grasp water, Exceedingly specific molecules. Now, I have this urge To blur all edges, Debussy rather than Mozart, Monet rather than Ingres, The haze, the ubiquitous haze: A simmering August morning, Heat steaming off the dew, When the rasping din Of cicadas muddles the head In mesmerizing rhythm; When the fog is dense, Oceans...

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Old Clyde and Mrs. Hill

By on Mar 3, 2019 in Cuttings, Fiction | Comments Off

When I was a young man, Dad lost everything to the bank: Jet Cleaners, a marriage, our home on Glenn Road, our predictable, idyllic, suburban routine. When we moved to town, my little sister and I were decrepit, worn out after the catastrophe. Now everyone was too close together.  We staggered up the broken, treacherously icy stairs, careening like Laurel and Hardy in winter to the apartment, the sagging, exhausted house on West Gambier Street. Jo’s Chateau of Beauty was in the back, Hyle’s Typewriter Repair in the front, Kenyon and civilization five miles east, the flat, monotonous...

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