The Fidelity of Angles
  
by Geffrey Davis

          Longing approaches us by froms—: from memory,
from holy irreverence, from time zones apart

          where another morning’s light creeps
all across a distinct range of mountain,

          stunning plateau birds into the original
sweetness of song. We want to understand this—

          according to our appetite for pulling
a rare, angular music from the body’s

          dark cathedral. Or we grow stubborn
for the wild severity of the wind

          plying trees. We want the vastness of that
motion, then sleep. We desire so much from more.