When Plan B could be
better than A, it’s time
to reconsider
the route you keep
choosing to scramble home.
Civil Twilight or Dawn Poems
Carousel at Lighthouse Point
Another chance for naked
thought escapes into a threatening
sky before it tips
into night. Nothing comes
of the gusts. What blows
over wasn’t as transparent
as she wished. Dangling
power lines frighten her
now as they did when
she ran all the way to the point
for a slow spin.
Not a One Is Blind
Fold up those black bat
wings, try not to break
any bones. Would I stay drier
with a mature adult
protecting me overhead?
Getting tangled
in hair is a myth. I could see you
if these clouds would disintegrate
is another. When I look up
it’s all concave and vital again.
Whose Serendipity
Months go by, plans
straightened and stacked
against a retaining
wall. One strong June blast
of warm air, and she’s off
her stoop, she’s scrambling
to recollect. The reshuffle
comes out as red as
an improvised sunset
backing off a river.
Loring Park Daily
A commotion of geese flaps across
this paved way to go in circles
through my front yard I share
with anyone willing to show up. My struggle
to take off is my refusal
to drop the weight of every moment
but this one. This one
could be my soar. Could.
Rain Bird
Just a roll over
and under time,
I’ve been working on
working through it
these past seven years.
No tunnels or bridges
over ravines to dramatize
my life. The course
has been steady
as grace that floats
in the inner harbor
where surfing is a bust.
I’ve been giving
this big river in the middle
the time of day—saw a heron
create shadows over Loring Lake
with its wing span. I might be ready
to take that risk, might spread
my silhouette over the bell tower
before civil dawn breaks.
Pervious
Farmers market stalls
in newly arrived cold. She would crawl
into a Silva
Cell to live among the roots
she never got to touch before going
to hell and back
with a pail of structural soil. Would step
over pervious
pavers to catch even a glimpse of you
conversing with a large red
oak before another civil twilight breaks
apart light.
Wry
Into that laughter she takes
a wrong turn, lands
outside a stone
wall where vines bare
their veins. The host separates
direct light from parallel lines
across
wind-stirred dirt. She picks it up
at the last possible moment
before rain drowns out sound.
Spring Crit
Oh, hyacinth.
And a strip of lilac
cement above a grid
of characterless windows.
She questions
why
a shed needs decorating.
Show me your beams,
my bones, instead.
Census Blanks
Rebellion in long black
boots and Paper Mate flare
ink. Are those hearts
on the cap clip—a branding
she wouldn’t trust? Never
bother with a steady pace. No grace
in her stride toward another
pair of male arms. It hurts her
more than they would imagine.
One person household, an apartment
number she recites
over the noise of a question
about a parking voucher
she’s entitled to. She’ll answer
the next one—tightlipped for now.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 