She can drop the music
on ice—it won’t
break apart
the way she hopes her worry
stone strokes might. Cracks
visible on a surface
take time to register inside
her. Continuity
isn’t hers to give away.
Under Influences (or Emil Nolde’s “Evening Glow”)
Looking at this painting backwards,
the poet begins
to see how not
to end, how the center holds
only recycled reflections of a soul. More
will be revealed, still
a nuisance theme, runs
rampant in reds and golds inside
closed lids. And then there’s that
damn song and the guy who sings it—how
it wrote him inside
out. Was it? It was
this torched. Turn it
over with eyes at rest
Meaning can’t be met
at the station. It floats over tracks
and erases bridges made derelict overnight.
Floe Cinquain
Water’s
constant motion
from my city to yours
can’t be stopped by ice concealing
the want.
The Waiting Again
This eye encased
in brick—not a bearing
wall but for show. This eye
above
the bar before me
is not staring down but straight
ahead till remodeling
becomes
a plan. And I wait around
another corner. Some string
quartet plays in another room. Not
what I’m waiting for.
A march
of Absolut bottles—Apeach, Kurant,
Mandrin, Mango, Pears, Peppar, Raspberri,
Ruby Red. Someone has taken
the time to line them up in alphabetical
order. Not
what I’m waiting for. I would never wait
for the bottle—the bottle would never wait
for me. That one’s over. This one
is an outpouring
of dark song—always worth it.
Always an incurable
gaze, mine.
Untitled (Day 2,631)
Subversive gardening, I am
an urban vine unwilling
to be tethered to one person’s possession.
I will not become
part of anyone’s landscape
of ownership dispute. I will
grow as my environment allows. I will
become a grubby urban palimpsest
to be layered upon by a future you and me.
Note: John Ashbery refers to grubby urban palimpsests in his book Reported Sightings: Art Chronicles, 1957-1987, ed. David Bergman (Knopf, 1989).
Cauldron Over Ice
Macbeth is here to be
seen down by the river.
Take a walk
on the endless
bridge overlooking it
to get ready. These three sisters
will not be dismissed.
Franconia Sculpture Park
Reclaim a shed, hitch it
by cables to the sky, spin it
around to face that northern
horizon as it becomes
enlarged by civil twilight. Use
earth to honor the earth—a dirt
laden jigsaw puzzle piece suspended
above its perfectly dug
grave speaks in monosyllables.
The greater swing risks breaking
with each arc, a bracing
hazard always worth it in the end.
Act
as if he could give
you what remains
of daylight. Shadow kisses
across your cold cheek. Relief
from rush hour chaos—a simple word breaking
off your mouth. Energy
from ten cups of black coffee, ten cans of Red
Bull not needed here. As if
this recognition could be
on your face.
From Washington Avenue South
Coming soon
in red—Macbeth
crawls up
the sky.
Camera Invisible (Day 2,626)
If she were shooting
photos day
by day, she would look
for you in two-way skyway
motion, would need to
actually see you, then find
a way to take your image
without being exposed.
Impossible. You’re nowhere
near here. Not yet. Not ever
going to take cover
on this second floor winter
salvation. No, she has it
too easy—
this corner table, this pen,
that imagination, the taking
a network of secret lines.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 