Minneapolis, zone 4 more so
than 5. New York City, 7. Only odd ones
get full excavation
treatment for this reassembled
world. Don’t forget tonight’s hard
working crooner, guitar
string shredder. Buy the music
for now and for another
night, for this and another
man who would put himself
back together in new time—
more so than zone.
365 day
hat wearer goes down
the last shaded one way lane.
If she plants the seeds
blended into the pulp
of that message I sent
ground, what
sprouts will be fewer syllables,
less energy spent
on transit. A garden poem
for those who prefer theirs
not so defined—simply Sweet
William Pinks, Rocket
Larkspur, Wallflower, Catchfly,
Five Spot,
English Daisy, Sweet
Alyssum, Lemon Mist, Spurned
Snapdragon, Blue
Flax, Black-
Eyed Susan.
Morning
comes before red
shrinks to a new orange
reflection in the faucet head
poured off.
Mistook
an old building
for a saxophonist
in an alley not a jazz club
tonight.
Tonight I steal the island.
Tomorrow its sound.
Never will remove the clay.
Another city, another black
bird soars over pedestrian
heads. I have one. The least
unease matures into full-on anxiety
about what clouds
won’t hold. I’m not afraid
to fly but do fear those
with the will
to—agents flying, flew, have flown.
It’s been a year—I wouldn’t turn
to stone or tin
if I ran into you on the sidewalk
in the shadow
of your tower. That we haven’t crossed
paths since we decided to cross
each other off
the list is a sign. Our lanes
weren’t meant to merge
on any slope—slippery or not.
This inner rind is more than a third
place—is the mystery loosened
from its virtual frame. A peaches
crate is just a wooden crate
with spin. The revolutions
per minute for this plane
hum and whir—a fan
for unfurling home’s measures
in one simple night.
Take another day, flip
through pages desperately
seeking a poetic
heliport to land on—damselfly
become aware of what’s precious
turf the way no insect
could. Become the contradiction
you’ve dreamed of
embodying all your life. Chuckle
over the claw
foot tub in the middle
of a bedroom in a rundown apartment
in the middle
of last night’s dream. Just that—the criticism
was a mirage. Plans
to plant a garden inside the porcelain
basin no longer necessary. Nothing’s
real anymore, so do it today—do it now.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 