She might become a square foot
gardener. Her beds
raised and compact, she tends
to her slopes
as intensely as she used to
roll down them.
No One Can Claim Me
Was that you
who almost ran
over me
with your bicycle
wheeling down France?
Were you thinking
of hitting me? I get lost
in the suburbs
on warm weekend afternoons
when no one’s
looking. Did you realize
you might be touching
the unclaimed?
Summer 1983
Her summer
of lust. She used up more
dances on her dance card
(and drink tickets)
that season than most do
in decades. Ran out
of both years ago. Now
she can dance
and run and drink
water from outdoor fountains
all by herself.
No More Reunion
Lakes recede
to reveal
what we were thinking
before it
all began. You listened
so well, retained
everything, convinced me
to run
not always solo.
Geothermal energy
not wind power
you argued. I know nothing
about robotics, even less
about how to fathom
your mysterious exit. What
am I supposed to do
with that fact? You won’t
be returning to explain.
Swollen Lake
Of the Isles. Share,
yield, shorten
leashes indefinitely. Don’t
run over the butterfly
or dragonfly or
moment. No one complains. Take a wider
breadth. The drinking
fountain is an island
in standing water
you can’t reach—for now.
Day 4,231
Urban archaeology—river
running—the falls
bring it—the power—Emily
dashes for all—what
would she have mused
about the Mississippi
if she had gotten that far? So far
into this overflow.
Knocks
The interrupting
cow doesn’t eat
meat or drink
milk or mean
to be so rude.
Thoreau Said It
“Not till we are lost, in other words not till we have lost the world, do we begin to find ourselves, and realize where we are and the infinite extent of our relations.”
― Henry David Thoreau, Walden
Still getting lost
a little bit more
to find herself. Criss-
crossing Central Park
in the Ramble
passing by the Gill,
she laughs aloud
at the promise
of accidental
disappearances. Lean
into it and go
with a random choice
when the path forks. When
fear of planes
losing altitude fades
into the amplified echo
chamber of a sax
being blown
under the Glade Arch.
The sun offers some
answers, but she’d rather
have black cherry, black locust,
oaks, sycamore, and cucumber
magnolia trees camouflage
them. Rather forget
to panic this time. No
deadline surrounding this land.
Summer Solstice Cinquain
Opens
early to light
to spread it out longer
than any other—bleeding to
the night.
There’s That Date Again
June 12. But
who cares? She’s
getting on a plane
to leave these twin towns
tomorrow. New York
stories spoken—not
sung. Recover—not
disappear. A Flatiron
Building—not the Flats.
The Hudson and the East—not
the Cuyahoga. And
she’ll cross
the Mississippi, but
she’ll be back.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 