An old park viewed
from a heightened
angle. Which bird’s
eye? Left or right or
mind’s? Will the 21st-century
Cyclops fly? How
will I capture
it with my butterfly
net? What about you?
No Names
They are
pointless. A 20-year age
gap. Don’t label
me that other
name for puma
when I haven’t leapt
on any prey. Figures
he played
guitar in a former
life. I wrote geography
books for kids
in one of those. Scroll
into a building
on a street
in a city
of the world mapped
without any
borders beyond
those city limits. Don’t
print it—walk it
off. A 20-year
gap looks so tiny
on this hand
held device. Who
holds mine next
may not be in hiding.
Before Outdoor Music and Movie Night
Gray explosions
on white on
a shower
curtain say more
than a rainbow
garden of stripes
or petals or
letters of an alphabet
gone mad. And
the red
towel hanging
over the bar
becomes the doorway
to fabric tunes
in motion. Splat
ball in a claw
foot tub might sound
like this.
Risk Crossing
And more deadlines to meet
even in dreams. With extra
obstacles and an octopus
of black power
cords that need to get
from A to B
before dawn. And the fishing
might be
good if it rains. And that man
who walks his Cavalier
King Charles
Spaniel near the archery
range just might be
the last man she kissed good-night.
August 1st
And the old floating
bridge moans
as the cattails
whistle and she nods
to the fish
in the pond below. And
urban nature’s
reach rescues
her once again
from herself.
July 27: 11 Months
Startled by the number 27
on my apartment door,
the nearest cross
street to an avenue
I used to live on. Where
did it factor
in your life
before it became
the day you died?
No reflexes can wake you
now, no tallies
too low, temperatures
too high. You used
to say time
was make believe,
manufactured to manage obsessions—
yours, mine, the rest
of the world’s. When light
rain placates a summer afternoon,
I wonder who
did the making and what
materials were used. You would
have known. Which mattered
most—the distance
you traveled or the moments
passed observed? You kept track
of both despite everything
because you knew
no other way to live.
Day 333
Temp drops
a natural spritz
darkens the sidewalk. Hail
pounds down
crops. Buzz
used to be
the sound of bees—but
where are they, where
are we now?
Routes and Revivals
Nobody would mistake
a runner’s
log for poetry. No true
run could be
anything less. Or honest
obsession begin
any way other than head
first into the deep
end of risk
and nostalgia. I am
nobody waiting
to meet you
again. Then again
who am I
to be so mistaken
by fresh water
over warped notes?
Fan Fact
Window, tower, box,
circular, three-speed, high
velocity, ceiling, exhaust. Heat
waves come and
stay. Birds
bathe in dirt, the cat a puddle
of flattened fur
behind the claw
foot tub. All the characters
have been stolen—tickets
on sale next
Wednesday at noon.
Was the Anniversary of Johnny Thunders’ Birth
Yesterday. An unmarked package
delivered on an unmarked
morning. But she knows. Has been expecting
you to return
for a new verse, extended play. Gone
from gonna to did
and looping
back again. No more bye-bye. What’s it
like? Who really wants to know?
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 