Left leaning
too much spiral
not enough straight
on till dawn. Or,
at least till
the wooded trail breaks
onto a field
of heather
and black-eyed Susans.
The voice behind
the motion
will not reveal itself. Maybe
its body (if it has one)
will heal
faster incognito.
Hands free
to roam over
other peninsulas
or anywhere there might be ghosts
to swipe.
Again the month
of grandeur
in grief appears
on the calendar.
A grid of days
leading to the day
the floor, the foundation
to my house
of stability gave
way. A crumbling
to open
all invisible doors
to go forward
without him.
Always gives
her pause. She starts
and stops love
affairs on summer ones. That young
man who touches her
hair and cheek
in a dream she had
on this month’s 12th
has nothing
to do with her
imagination. And the green fairy
isn’t always green. She knows this
without taking a sip.
Of the Isles. Share,
yield, shorten
leashes indefinitely. Don’t
run over the butterfly
or dragonfly or
moment. No one complains. Take a wider
breadth. The drinking
fountain is an island
in standing water
you can’t reach—for now.
Urban archaeology—river
running—the falls
bring it—the power—Emily
dashes for all—what
would she have mused
about the Mississippi
if she had gotten that far? So far
into this overflow.
“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Still getting lost
a little bit more
to find herself. Criss-
crossing Central Park
in the Ramble
passing by the Gill,
she laughs aloud
at the promise
of accidental
disappearances. Lean
into it and go
with a random choice
when the path forks. When
fear of planes
losing altitude fades
into the amplified echo
chamber of a sax
being blown
under the Glade Arch.
The sun offers some
answers, but she’d rather
have black cherry, black locust,
oaks, sycamore, and cucumber
magnolia trees camouflage
them. Rather forget
to panic this time. No
deadline surrounding this land.
Again she asks
the water
droplet on a corner
table who owns
the land. Who
owns you—precious
liquid, tiny reservoir
of truth? What’s
an embarrassment
of papers mean
in a flood? Or,
incurable thirst? I’ll mop
you up—but
I won’t buy.
She almost settles
for a blank page. At the last
minute, she drops
ink—no coloring
inside or outside
the lines. There are none.
Just a geometry
of faith in some kind
of muse. Be it green-tinted
goslings growing by
the second in the grasses
along Lake of the Isles. Or,
some other miracle
still capable of bursting
on the scene upon our poor
wearied planet.
a solitary woman
in an Edward Hopper painting. A silhouette
on an empty
bed, she gazes out an open
window in a New York City
five-story, walk-up. Hair pulled
into a dancer’s bun, dressed
in a pale peach nightgown. Bare
thighs—this is not
loneliness. She becomes
in awe
of herself
and the world
in early morning.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 