Poetry Porch: Poetry


by Ellen Davis

In the indecipherable hour,
what is this art that you cultivate?
Each sculpture takes something
out of you. With each new figure
another eye or heart gone.
Is night absence? Or a presence
more haunting because itís like death?
Where do you go when youíre at work
and is that your true studio? It isnít here,
the way it appears to the others,
next to me. Itís in some empty room.
where a door swings open into the dark,
a vacuum. You take up your work
with attention. And in that room
I am as nothing.

Copyright © 2009 by Ellen Davis.