JACK DAVIS

Before

Before you could pose beside
a dormant volcano, hold up the middle finger
and have a stranger take your picture,

before you could sit still for that many
hours to get your portrait
done in a sun-drenched room, before

this was not just a moment
(you, me, the canyon),
but what I’d seal in a cheap gold

frame, label Somewhere West
and watch become crooked,
before

I could type a poem
on my phone
or press the head

of this pencil to this
paper —before all of that—
was there a way to turn

to someone on an evening
like this, maybe
your love in the river bathing,

the new wolves yapping,
the sky pink, the distant rocks
buckling to form the mountains,

and say — How can I do it?
Will you remember this for me?