Waiving
the right to write,
I am a silent tree
shading a racket of dreams left
behind.
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.
Lady’s Slippers Under Pine
On her way to join
a cult, she unearths
her identity on the edge
of the woods
where she used to get lost.
Edge
No agent would help
the poet. Bottles
get flattened down to two
dimensions—a window display
for early morning
risers uncertain
about their place. Whoever
turns himself
in becomes the true
peddler of reprieve.
2012 Summer Solstice: June 20
These are
elastic skies
that won’t snap into night
before it’s time to pause under
the cusp.
If It Seems Too Good
To be true, an angel
with tattoos, graffiti
that peels off
in picaresque waves,
unselfish forgery, a silver
dragon gift, fresh
clichés, forgotten
equations, debtor’s
heaven, one red chair
left standing
is a lie.
Feud
If I disown the color green,
how will I remember how to climb
a tree? If it’s blue
I say is no longer mine, I might go
blind. Black and white
cannot rescue us now.
Islands of Virgin Woods
A stack of canoes banked
on a rack beside the canal
between two lakes is a chain
gang of my former lovers. Release
the bungee cord fasteners, free
one from the group to use. Glide
through flat water
on a sunny afternoon till it turns
into black sky and heavy rain. Plunge
the paddles, pick up the pace.
If I don’t return
this one, I won’t get another
one to damage—or
be damaged by.
Real Subway
Everything changes
when tracks get laid
down to boulevard
the street. No heavy
rail in these towns. How many
American cities go underground
to move? Above, on, or
below—I will ride
out the need
to be destined.
Severe
Light becomes passive
aggressive with an upturned
umbrella ceiling. Reflected
off nothing more, nothing
less, I might scream, or
quietly hum
in the rain.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 