Dust in a machine,
overheated thoughts trigger
emergency shutdowns. Zigzag
is not a place. This is
the only place
where rain comes in threads
that won’t dissolve
the glue she uses
to hold what’s left
of her together.
High Hat Wind
Moan or whistle, skyway
window panes are walls
of response to the lowest
air pressure to hit the state
in recorded history. Loss
of power isn’t the same
as how we become powerless
to stop weather patterns
of obsession from registering
overhead—constricting within.
Epitaph in Ashes
For Steve
Because there would be
no next time
around, she chooses to listen
to Nick Drake, Sandy Denny, Joy
Division the way he would have wished
if he still could.
Shall We Dance?
For Steve and Colin
We three who sit in a tattered, sprung black
booth on the non-music side
ask
ourselves this. The confusion—
liver or lives, ecstasy
from a handful of pills or arms
dropping
from an invisible burden. It would kill
off two, would leave
the third alone
to hold the hollows
of an answer together
with her own hug
she wraps around herself.
A Seasonal Man
For Steve
A spring rain
essence hangs in the air
on a Saturday morning
in October, triggers memories
of any season
up for grabs. We hunt for rats
in the NYC subway,
on its streets, behind
its garbage bins
in alleys. Summer in the City
always makes a statement
to the nose. Bad
puns and monotony
breaking drinks to keep us
warm on a Minnesota winter
night. I came unprepared. You
had no idea what you were
getting yourself into—out of.
On the west bank
of the Saint Croix,
we read through
all I had written
come spring. It came
so violently, I almost faded
dead away
by my own hand. Was it yours
that crossed out
the almost
18 years later—the slow
desperation of a soul dying
to be free.
Arrogant Cocoon
If she saw what touched
those streets, these steps
she rarely takes, that railing,
she wouldn’t leave her own
skin, wouldn’t believe
in the imagination
and its relatives, would
simply wrap herself up
till it rained.
No Anodyne
Another symptom—repetition—
a narrative loop
you thought was only running
in your head leaks
out. The sound is a drone,
explosion, premonition, reaper
grim about the mouth.
Day 2,901
No mapping
exercise, no
diapason, geometric
shape speaking to me
while I sleep
will bring him back. No
longer in medias res, he
took the wrong detour
and never recovered
his footing.
Georgia One Revisited
To confuse sense
of place with your lap, accidental
falls with the truth
as it comes out when
I’m asleep is to reenter
those dreams I forget.
Sculpture Garden
I see a rainbow reflection on the cherry
spoon of its own making—fountain’s
mist. Sun’s been shining
all day. And I know
I can break
my own heart.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 