While dreaming,
our number
transforms into
a symbol
that gives
permission to go
on forever. One
sprawling figure
eight
through the seasons. But
it turns out
8 is not ∞
You have stopped
counting as I build momentum.
Grief can’t be quantified.
I must resort
to art as I carry you
with me on and off
the trace.
“Anonymity is priceless.”
—Jay Farrar, Falling Cars and Junkyard Dogs
At the half
century mark, debris stops
falling long
enough for her
to see stars. Suddenly
she believes
in the power of the speed
of light to guide her
to a place
that needs
no name. Familiar
faces remain
intact. And another
song becomes
a homecoming
she didn’t realize
she was
craving in her sleep.
Rumors of notes
divided up—a settlement
made behind closed trap
doors. Illegal bindings
can lead to the tightest bonds
and rhythm section. Whatever
you call it—maybe true
love—spills forth
where the mapping leaves off.
Your book turns
me on too much I can’t
sleep I can’t stop
for punctuation I’m a girl
cliché it’s your words
not those naughty
photos or sketches.
The too bright
morning sun
has yet to burn
off any of this late
April snow. What good
is an international
film festival pass
if she refuses
to see? Drama
of the interior elates
her more than a car
chase her father would have laughed
over. The last notes
to the bridge
smell the best.
How do you know
you are raising
a terrorist? Hate is
a four letter word
that leaves a permanent smear.
Love is
a four letter word
that can remove
even the most stubborn stain.
With original denim
colored eyes
still seeking,
she puts her obsession with death
of punk music
to rest. Silent influences
to speak of
alone together. Another sip
of a double shot
espresso in a true demitasse
cup to stay—
and so she loves
more than one city
these days. No ranking. Even in April
sleet and slush, she leans
toward jean not leather
jackets. But still leather
boots over canvas flats.
Swan boats
Arthur Fiedler
Logan Sumner Tunnel
The Phoenix Newbury Comics
Fenway
Boston:
I loved you first,
no terror can break you.
Boston—where my parents first met—
prevails.
Maiden. She sank 101 years ago today,
or had started to sink. My father taught me
how to swim in a bay
off a rocky beach. He taught me
how to tie my shoes on porch steps
that spilled onto those rocks—though he said
I taught myself. I never sank
all the way to the bottom.
I’ve always managed to swim
ashore. So many to thank. I could not
have done it by myself.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 