by Chris Davidson

The concrete path goes round the house,
giving access to all its sides. In summer,
it’s white as salt, at night dulled
as under a full moon tinted slightly blue,
like the blue accenting ice in the ocean.
Around front it lets go a straight
spur through a lawn of dying grass
to the street. The neighbors’ lawns on both sides
are lit-up green, and springy, and
connected to ours by the sidewalk parallel
to the street absorbing each house’s path,
a creek taking in tributaries and flowing
or frozen. From above, though I’ve never been,
the houses with paths like this look like
thought balloons in comics, each house what it—
the street, pale gray space—thinks,
or maybe the street’s the bordering void
between panels. The void does the talking here,
friends, and conveys people well-packaged
to and from the aphorisms they sleep in.
This is no complaint. It’s where I live.
4th of July the street’s released to kids.

Chris Davidson is Assistant Professor of English at Biola University, where he directs the Biola composition program and writing center. He holds a B.A. from Cal Poly San Luis Obispo and M.F.A. from the University of California at Irvine. His poems have been published in numerous journals, including Alaska Quarterly Review, Caesura, Cimarron Review, CRATE, Dust Up, Orange Coast Review.

*Photo courtesy of futureatlas.com.