A basketball left
on a playground half
covered in snow—the view
through the chain
link fence. A typo
in a blog entry posted late
at night—the view
through cleared morning
vision. A mannequin wears
a flowing dress with white
lilies over a background
the color of the inside
of a grapefruit—the view
across an empty plaza. The lipstick
I leave on
this ceramic coffee mug
is the only view
I can touch.
Digital monsters
with moustaches, power
outlets in the café
floor, the names
we never got
right—that door
ought to be
locked. Or, then, not
at all. Why did this
way get invented
if no one is
allowed to go
this way? That
would be called
the last
exits to exist.
No recipes for Pinterest. No nails
for the resurrection
of Washington
Avenue. It’s really a boulevard
without the reach
of Broadway. I remember
the way I lived
in the Bronx. That elevated #1
line dropped shadows,
then hints, of the plains
I might choose to cross
before decades erased
my interest
in pins and collage.
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.
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.
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.
Skyway food service
shuts down after five—
then the dancing begins. Local hip
hop escapes her
notice but not the flailing
limbs of that young man
with a mop. An ink
and coffee and rain
stained Post-It pad still holds
its orange—a sky
she won’t meet
till winter washes away.
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.
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.
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.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 