No Second Seventh and Second by Jordan Davis

Hands with blue nail polish holding a red apple

No Second Seventh and Second

I want to live in that leopard there
Male and female like
The flowering margin of the dark.

If it has one place
It is a mountain.

Antique gauloise
Rocking horse,
Summer’s smashed blonde

Only an ugly
Bastard of gruel,
Will get it, girl.

Marsh and fog or bright the skin
Not, how does the game work.

And his unknown name of power
Was still a mess,
As he napped autumn was passion.
But turn your face from the paycheck

Heel’s come through argyle web.
Sundays of audiocassettes come back

The baby likes is autumn what.
Am I a thing outside a car?

More radiant sanities!
A stronger ghost, nameless, gold,
Three to the em
But she looks good to me.

The situation in which Satan
Wants you to vote:
The brain is streaked whole

The ball peen pen.

Gascap geographies
I.e. theft of service
Through pressed leaves

The police department
Gets a kind of music every day
As trees are incandescent

When leaves are coming
Like a yellow light
The telephone rings
Its fatal pearl, talk about
A city and its cabbage,

Born marigolds with deep
Blue mustaches.

The beginning was a game is
Meter serious and maybe
Crying like a dirty maybe.

Runners cross the full moon
Weak horn great and labial
Marys the sun caged.

A burglar in the mast
Wrote Hollywood—

When I hear something break
Dotting the acre with miracle trash
As full-time pale as the mother
Of a witness in contempt jumping

Oh rope made of flowers
I think it might be me.

One thing he likes is motion,
Another is still.
See something by itself
Then in its safety.

November morning, be good,
Get up, business to business.

In a gold sweater she rolls
An apple between her palms.
She cuts a gash on the plains,
She puts on a loincloth of trees.

Radiators chastening lead dollars
Grim mill-turners strike coal
To coal singing down ladders.
Sforzando of soggy drachmas,
Beethoven’s Irish saints come through pink
Like thrift store cigars of manual sky.

A cod before the flour
Beats and bangs,

The decimal’s shadow lands hard on a student;
Shiva’s got the book another six weeks.

Fairground ruts, tourists lit from within
All bicycle gears chained to a square.

You shave your head but it doesn’t hurt.
They break the sidewalk as you broke ice,
Pretending to be a boat.

Tall-bathers in the flowers, white-shadowed,
Are you bad too? Silence.
Spot me in the parlor willful
And the teabag flops like kelp.

Touch, or what did you do?
Do you track yourself before the snow?
In that grave November grave,
Drinking black and white water.

Clasps are the main thing.

One is a carnival packer
Consumed by printer’s ink,
I see the fire came from those trees,
The path to the water
Turpentined stones.
Our lives
Came before the thoughts of them.

And here again, at last,
Is love from another time,
Sunrise surprising diagonal mirrors.

Please stop mid-sentence again,
I’ll follow your hideout
Take the bowls of camellias down,
Put the real maples around. For starters

Loud sweet music in the music classroom,
The clean machine of your voice

Ass and sigh,
And you look along the street

I see the stitch as cottoning
Is the mention, someting dirty
Draws you nearer

A laugh is nervous everything.
To find you in a booth
And help you, up, and down.
I see the boat arriving from
The train along the sound,

Two dull men get off with you.

The rain is a journal
Kept by pianos.

See it down the highway—
I had one church

Chest to chest and leg to leg,
Dumb summer contains sunlight
I’ll feel for miles.

In everything superior I met street.

The art of the office
Finds a way to snow.
Blessing on the branch
In squalid welding-light

The amateur of last year
By the autographed tonight
Gathers as fiction
Damned beaches as foam is tall
Out of jail trumpets

Savage mommies eureka the grapes

True ages last for horses
For the Goethe of Fortran.
Here is a magic substance

Do I prove you want
I loved. I’m… purr.


Jordan Davis’s second book, Shell Game, was published by Edge Books in 2018.

Courtney Cook is an MFA candidate at the University of California, Riverside, and a graduate of the
University of Michigan. An essayist, poet, and illustrator, Courtney's work has been seen in The Rumpus,
Hobart, Lunch Ticket, Split Lip Magazine, and Maudlin House, among others. Her illustrated memoir,
THE WAY SHE FEELS, is forthcoming from Tin House Books in Summer 2021. When not creating, Courtney
enjoys napping with her senior cat, Bertie.