Three Poems

Daniel Bailey


The sun cracks its knuckles, shines its shoes, and keeps on walking

At an atomic level, I am sitting on the couch
waiting for the world of others to collide with me

“Yeah, I don’t know,” speaks the holy water
into the holy drain

One’s being reverberates when the collision is true
when only the shatter-proof glass hangs in multitudes

Hold on, let me sing you an aria
from I know I know every hallway and path
and the ceilings thereof

Us (whoever), push through the swinging panes
bruising and bleeding
unshattering, though tell that to the scorekeeper

Once on the field, I hand you a javelin
say, “You know what to do”


I am one of way too many

I shove my plastic into you

The echo informed by the act
Same same same
I am with myself
You are with yourself too

Licking the spewel from it
Trees flux the sunbeams into a clamoring

The souciant blame the insouciant
for the aftermath
or rather the math after the clamorers
have excavated their voices and tongues
placed them in the niches of their personalities

Spewel ignited once again
My tongue laps at it
It doesn’t add up
There is nothing to console the baby
suckling the wound

I sit in silence
awaiting the moment
that God ceases to speak
through the wrong mouth


I watched a film where the closed captioning was always one line ahead of its actors

That’s emotion: the gun jumping the shark

The elevator stuck between floors

The little bit of God stuck inside us all

A splinter working its way out of a calloused thumb
Daniel Bailey is the author of several books poetry, most recently A Better Word for the World (Apocalypse Party, ‘21). He lives and teaches in Athens, Georgia, where he continues to revise his bio.