Morning
comes before red
shrinks to a new orange
reflection in the faucet head
poured off.
Month: June 2011
Eddy Hall: A Cinquain
Mistook
an old building
for a saxophonist
in an alley not a jazz club
tonight.
Castaway Red
Tonight I steal the island.
Tomorrow its sound.
Never will remove the clay.
Don’t Say Catalyst
Another city, another black
bird soars over pedestrian
heads. I have one. The least
unease matures into full-on anxiety
about what clouds
won’t hold. I’m not afraid
to fly but do fear those
with the will
to—agents flying, flew, have flown.
Traffic Break
It’s been a year—I wouldn’t turn
to stone or tin
if I ran into you on the sidewalk
in the shadow
of your tower. That we haven’t crossed
paths since we decided to cross
each other off
the list is a sign. Our lanes
weren’t meant to merge
on any slope—slippery or not.
Unshelved
This inner rind is more than a third
place—is the mystery loosened
from its virtual frame. A peaches
crate is just a wooden crate
with spin. The revolutions
per minute for this plane
hum and whir—a fan
for unfurling home’s measures
in one simple night.
Odonata
Take another day, flip
through pages desperately
seeking a poetic
heliport to land on—damselfly
become aware of what’s precious
turf the way no insect
could. Become the contradiction
you’ve dreamed of
embodying all your life. Chuckle
over the claw
foot tub in the middle
of a bedroom in a rundown apartment
in the middle
of last night’s dream. Just that—the criticism
was a mirage. Plans
to plant a garden inside the porcelain
basin no longer necessary. Nothing’s
real anymore, so do it today—do it now.
After Solstice
Chilled by indecision—even a bad choice brings on
summer momentum. I might
go out after
dark. Could swallow flavored water while the camera
runs. Staged accidental
encounters are the new absence
of light
when I dig deep enough into this primitive season.
Measure
Expectations for the long arm
of light to cradle her—better
yet jolt her—into a wider frame
can only lead to one thing:
disillusionment
that after tonight everything begins
to shrink. Or, there’s another one: relief
that summer is poised to stretch across
the best spills and spans.
Permanent Pause
Birthdays are present
tense even when the honoree is past
tense. In a year’s time,
I will surpass him in living
years. It’s a lie
that we can’t catch up
to, surpass, one another. I make
no predictions. Stand still could be
a quality of light
or shade of blue. I can see
only glare—no faces reflected
in the atrium wall, could be
a window if
you’re into that kind of thing.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 