When a building gets braided
before the roof settles, who can
predict how high
the electric fence
will need to be. And she’s come to
under the wire
often enough to care.
Each measure is always longer
than it sounds.
Day Poems
A Debt That Lasts
A lifetime, a generation
without Neil Young
to thank. A gratitude
expressed in color
rather than words, a dictionary
left open to the page
where trust gets its due,
truth comes alive.
Landlock
When red
umbrellas bleed
in a late winter rain, all the girls
she used to be
parade down streets
in their yellow slickers and fisherman’s
sou’westers. And who she is
now follows behind
with a tin pail to capture
her favorite
colors before they run
into the gutter.
366
A garden competition to see
who grows
more perennials ends
in a tie. Contiguous means more
to some. To direct
pedestrians around
a pillar without collision
is my definition. Always
a little extra left
over at the end
where those slate
steps fall off.
A Proofread Life Has No Action Verbs
The fog in my head
is not the one
in yours
that won’t clear. When
there’s nothing left
to hoard, a crack
in the marble will run
the length of the promenade
till it splits open—
a seam of unused words
packed in the foundation
like worms.
Notches on a Dictionary
I see one in a window and wonder
if they get stale
if left open and untouched
for too long. Half moon gaps
for two or three
letters at a time keep
the surface crisp. Cannot predict
how long before
someone notices the page
she ripped out to make a place
mat for breakfast
guests she won’t invite.
Lipstick on a Mirror
I would say
five nice things
about the person
sitting across
from me. But
there’s no one
there. A loud room
can get lonely
too. Sometimes the chalk
board is her
only friend—
that 48-year-old
woman who
isn’t there.
Handed
To confuse push
and pull is to break
stride in the midst
of an internal debate. Just as I
still mix
up left and right. A sly
rub over the callous
on my writing hand
index finger confirms
this is
left, not right. If I stop
writing, I’ll be lost.
Library Coffee
Drops of blood
from an orange awaken
her to choosing. She occupies
the end table because
it’s open. Clean glass
window walls corner
her to be
free to search
an after five
sky. Her findings
will be cataloged
off site.
But One of the Seven Wonders
Won’t be lit up
with LED lights
after civil twilight dies
another daily death. Tomorrow’s
reincarnation won’t be
so famous if Crash
has his way. And we all do
when we speak
the repurposed truth
at the mouth
of some river
or bottom of a canyon
no one remembered
to name.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 