A vacant hour before the sun— and with it a valve's pneumatic hush, the deep and nautical clunk of wood, chanson du ricochet of rivet gun, trowel tap, and bolt drawn— the moon sets and water breaks. Curled within a warm pleroma, playing for time, you finally turn and push your face toward November's glint of frost, grains of salt, weak clarities of dawn.
Copyright © 2010 by Devin Johnston. Used with permission of the author.
Devin Johnston was born in Canton, New York in 1970, and grew up in North Carolina. He received a PhD from the University of Chicago.
Johnston is the author of several collections of poetry, including Far-Fetched (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2015), Traveler: Poems (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2013), and Sources (Turtle Point Press, 2008), a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award.
A co-founder of Flood Editions, Johnston teaches at Saint Louis University in Missouri where he lives.
Date Published: 2010-10-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/aubade