Love Death Unfurl

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“And so, every building we have walked through begins to walk through other buildings.”
—Colum McCann, from his essay “An Imagined Elsewhere: The City of Cities” accompanying Matteo Pericoli’s World Unfurled

As far as she knows, he is the first
to go. Others may have
exited too—she can’t monitor
all egresses, all trap doors

lovers walk on, all the hot air
balloons that crash
into lagoons and straits.
Better to travel on foot

with skyway vision in January,
bridge perspective come spring.
That he has missed two seasons
already, will never feel the first

blast of warm euphoria
in Minnesota again—this is not
a spinster’s regret.

Related to Ladders

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A relief to see no parade
tonight, she still wants
to ask that man who eats

an apple as he exits
a parking ramp
if it’s bad

luck to walk in front
of a fire station’s garage
doors each morning,

then night. If the red light
means anything. If

he has a former lover
who has died too.

Sea Salt and Almonds

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“She knew the grammar of least motion.”
—Theodore Roethke, from “The Dream”

These curling waters won’t freeze
even when a spillway channel
halts in its purpose. It’s a long way
to the bayou
from here. Dark chocolate
could almost fuel us
on this journey
to a mouth with many tongues—a roof
all but blown away.

Fact or Fiction

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The details have begun
to fade—was it June
or July? New York or
Cleveland? Who were you 

opening for? Was a body
of water involved? I could sprinkle
these memory ashes
downstream into the river 

deceit. The truth: 

I haven’t forgotten even one
detail. Down to the pocket
in my dress, later chewed and torn
by an innocent Airedale. 

The truth? Do memories drown
when they’ve served their purpose?
Is two decades long enough?
What if they float?

Roaming Signals

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A nomad traveling in her own
head, she doesn’t want to settle
on one region of thought. To reject
ideas and emotions—it’s more

than that. A label stuck
to her baggage
underbelly won’t make it
through the conveyor system

to the other end. Another
home remains unclaimed.

Quod Vide

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That same queen
size mattress I saw
yesterday propped up

against a snow bank could be
the reassurance
I need to battle those

cream of wheat air bubbles
trapped in the ice I see
beneath my feet today. Could

just be someone else’s
New Year’s resolution.

2010 in review

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The stats helper monkeys at WordPress.com mulled over how this blog did in 2010, and here’s a high level summary of its overall blog health:

Healthy blog!

The Blog-Health-o-Meter™ reads Wow.

Crunchy numbers

Featured image

A Boeing 747-400 passenger jet can hold 416 passengers. This blog was viewed about 3,000 times in 2010. That’s about 7 full 747s.

In 2010, there were 306 new posts, growing the total archive of this blog to 472 posts. There were 2 pictures uploaded, taking up a total of 93kb.

The busiest day of the year was January 5th with 136 views. The most popular post that day was Rotate 180 Degrees.

Where did they come from?

The top referring sites in 2010 were facebook.com, en.wordpress.com, google.com, jingleyanqiu.wordpress.com, and mail.live.com.

Some visitors came searching, mostly for night and day poems, night and day poem, amy nash, amy nash the rambler, and poems about night and day.

Attractions in 2010

These are the posts and pages that got the most views in 2010.

1

Rotate 180 Degrees December 2009
2 comments

2

About June 2009
9 comments

3

Wellington Place April 2010
20 comments

4

Under Influences (or Emil Nolde’s “Evening Glow”) February 2010
2 comments

5

Transfusion September 2010
2 comments

Block E 2011

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A down feather on my left
sweater sleeve, empty

beer bottle buffed with a fresh coat
of snow on the sidewalk. Another
year left behind, another
comes into view. Beginnings often start

with a dormancy period.
Renewal can happen

while we sleep and the birds
are away. A woman cold and tight
in her long great coat kicks
the bottle toward the café exterior wall

where it spins and stops short
of becoming a noise maker

I didn’t miss hearing. Still
wouldn’t wake the dead
even on a day like today
when bottles roll toward me

as if the world has taken
a sudden turn.

Everything Else Is Frozen Sonnet

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On the Third Avenue Bridge
over the only spot
where river flow can still be
seen, I let go

of the last trace
of your voice—recording
of how I don’t want
to remember you

erased. What’s left
are those moments
I could see you
still moving. Those falls

rush on a relentless
industrial music.

Dead Relative Society Minutes

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This Wuthering Heights morning
will give way to nothing

more than a Kentucky afternoon
into a Mississippi River night. Ice

dams and avalanches
and floods—let them be.
What will be will be
on moor, in prohibition speak

easy cave, under Prairie
School eave overnight.