An old air
stream on a newly paved
driveway, a red pickup
like the one I imagined
I would own
one day. Still unlicensed
and not ready
to relinquish
sidewalks, I hug
the side of the road
and think
of the mystery
left in this escape.
Day Poems
Weathered and Racked
Behind a picture frame, buried
in the sand beneath
handmade cedar shingle
swings, above
the dunes, floating on
the surface of a disturbingly calm
bay, I might discover
my new obsession.
2012 Summer Solstice: June 20
These are
elastic skies
that won’t snap into night
before it’s time to pause under
the cusp.
Colon End Parenthesis
What is a smile beyond
the face, besides
voluntary use of muscles, between
two living beings? The Onion pokes
fun at poets again—she responds.
Circular Function
Freedom is
solitude by choice is
a walk through
a sculpture garden
on the way
into the woods is
art trails off
into nature in a hum
is a sustained container
that tickles
the soul
is freedom.
Small Rain
It spits
as it sings
of spring. She could start
the season over. Forget
the loud neighbor’s death
threats (sarcastic or not),
a father’s descent
into absolute silence,
a coworker’s suicide
that stings
the skin of all who knew
of him
but never got to know
who he was.
Lyric Lingers
If she could hide
at the back
table in an alley
café, listening
to “Brandy” piped in
from somewhere
behind a bar, she would be
no closer to reaching
you and your unspoken beauty
in paint. Would still not know how
to say hang straight.
Loading Dock Lost
And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
Spring Cleaner
Three out of four
ceiling fans spin high
above the café floor. This corner
table doesn’t wobble—she’s free
to write hard or lean heavy
into daydreams long buried
in a cold vault.
Didn’t Even Bite Me
It was an English sheepdog
on the island. I got tangled
in the wire—cut across
the tender part
of the ankle. Left
a scar next to the skin
I would permanently mark
later with a plastic
razor. On the same island.
And those nautical rope
bracelets with ends
fastened by fraying
and burning. I had
one of those too.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 