I will be reading some of my poetry at the Fireroast Mountain Cafe in South Minneapolis on Saturday, April 3rd, at 7 pm. For directions, check out their website: http://www.fireroastmountaincafe.com/
Day Poems
aka (Day 2,649)
She thinks she hears
a confident blues
guitar play across
the alley. Or,
she may have just read
a caption to a movie—
it’s come down to subtitling
her own language again.
E-missive (Day 2,646)
Without sound, how
do I know
what you mean
when you write
the letter K, when
you sign off with a see
you later? How
much later? I can’t see
your face—but you
never did give away much
with your eyes. Only
the tone holding
up or forcing down
the timbre in your voice
could begin to reveal
what I wish to know.
Reality Backlash (Day 2,645)
She isn’t going to tell
you or your brother
what she’s doing
with your other brother.
She doesn’t want
to know what you think
of her sister, or
what you plan to do
with her cousin.
She’s writing a book
without faces, without
links to anything
save
the fence she hopes
to break through.
Another Reverie (Day 2,644)
An incurable addiction
to the image
that comes on strong,
without warning—blue
bottles emptied of their rose
water gather light
upon a sill. A vine
still holding its dried leaves
tight clings to the window
in the dead
of winter not so dead. Stacks
of CDs cover the clear plastic
lid over a turntable. Everything
collects dust when ignored—especially
the soul.
Camera Invisible (Day 2,626)
If she were shooting
photos day
by day, she would look
for you in two-way skyway
motion, would need to
actually see you, then find
a way to take your image
without being exposed.
Impossible. You’re nowhere
near here. Not yet. Not ever
going to take cover
on this second floor winter
salvation. No, she has it
too easy—
this corner table, this pen,
that imagination, the taking
a network of secret lines.
Another Peripatetic Day (Day 2,621)
To be in motion and
at rest over ice, to walk
and talk of the prime
mover and still not believe is
to be without
property, untaxed, free to choose
temperance or the end
of grace in fits and starts.
Dead Drop (Day 2,620)
If she were to hide a circle
poem inside an ivy
covered tree, she might not leave
any coordinates, map, unattended
bag. She might choose the inside
of a piano for her next
cache, might decide to drop
a bomb on the destination nearest
your heart.
December 24 (Day 2,593)
Half page ads peddle faith
in 45-minute segments
by the hour on two campuses.
And a website to worship. A faltered blizzard
reminds her of her own faith—how
it works better
without a forecast, without
a Twitter account. Not
a without—a within.
Day 2,580
Residue cadence over steel,
chilled, is a drink
she would sip
on cold nights to remind
him how she could look
when not trying
to be so permanent. The seep
continues beneath
frozen surfaces—silently.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 