Bus stops disappear
into the sides
of mountains—snow
and ice, call 311 on a cell,
before climbing to the top
of insignificance.
Black Ice
I will map my avoidance a story
above fear. Frozen
or thawed, it’s got fangs. Transparent
or glazed, it coats the edges
of my motion toward makeshift tunnel
openings. Burrow or bite, the shiny
isn’t always so sweet.
Dabble
Now they say
swans divorce
too. I’m no pen,
no bird, no living
thing seeking to break
up another swim.
Frozen beyond stillness,
this land invites
illusion just to keep
frost bite muzzled tonight.
Otherwise Mute
The ideas we trouble
today become the ghosts
in our machines
tonight. That I judge
you the way you
me is our modern dance
so gravity laden
the ballet has become
extinct. In my wild
dreams about uncovering
empathy with swans,
sea otters, I am
the untroubled one, you
the same who floats
beside me on this channel surface.
Song from a Petri Dish
Microscope left on the piano
no one plays
tonight. Parades in the cold
silence this close study
of notes. Lids down,
I can hear
the blizzards that hum
without strings.
Night Poem
Upside down hurricane
lamps hang
from a ceiling’s exposed
bones in a place
called SPACE. Drapes
for walls, everyone can see
what the cooks are doing
with the night.
There’s nowhere
in this space
to hide. And yet
the singer won’t appear
till it’s time.
Coda to Kent Stage
To be lost inside the eye
of a virus, to shiver
from the sensation
that this condition is
permanent, to forget
what was so crucial
to say to you last night
is to be a human dropping
to her knees
to cushion the crash.
Who Has Drawn a Bead On
this day? It will not wake up
more than a dull white
of clouds and snow—an ash
missing a few waves. Must make
do with light tricks
weeks before winter. Find a way
to harness the energy
it will take to break
open the hours
to unclutter fear
from the walk.
Day 2,948
To shout “my socks
are wet” inside a crowded church
before it all begins
is to believe
in the beauty of echoes
as they become prayer.
When I Come To
after the drug
of eating dirt has splayed me
unconscious, I will resume
my search to unearth
my own history. And rub
stiffness from my hands—
the grip’s the worst. The alcoholic
tradition is not the only one
to be found. Will dig more.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 