A Lark is Hunger in the Blood

       I could never unriddle
       what spiders wove of themselves
       as the recluse did

       or unravel the dartings
       of hummingbirds
       in evanescent movements.

       The illusions of stillness
       never defined my prison
       clearly as a blue peninsula

       I could never navigate
       except from a window
       iced with frost in spring.

       I could never hide so well
       as the Arbutus does
       beneath March snow

       nor unclimb mountains
       written into musty pages
       opened like flat land.

       I could not stop
       nor would get on
       that dark carriage

       or trace on an unopened
       envelope the buzz
       of one black fly.

       I could not assemble
       immortality from
       the collage of postage stamps

       or love strangeness more
       than forever
       bundled like a hermitage of poems.

       I could not be
       but more hollow–
       so I leave myself

       in a crowded desk
       of faiths that open
       themselves in perfect time.

Born in Pennsylvania, David Anthony Sam now lives in Locust Grove, Virginia with his wife and life partner, Linda, and serves as president of Germanna Community College. He has three collections, was featured poet in the April 2016 Hurricane Review, and in 2015 was twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize.