You could play guitar inside
a carved out amphitheater
within a grain silo. The notes
that get trapped inside
honeycomb pockets
would resonate all the truer
a roots sound with the memory
of wheat protecting them.
I would stand
a perpetual ovation
in my red steel balcony—an intervention
that gets results.
Balcony scars on the side
of a house haunt
us—another Verona,
another serenade, another exit
into perfect darkness.
A guitar pick moon
offers us the night. We take it
string by wave by bits
of breath easing close.
That between hotel rooms
doorway, loop hole
in my story, rarely used,
opens questions
to the last fading
balcony light. Is it
one door or two? If one,
does it lock
on both sides? If on
only one, who chooses who
gets to hold the key?
Would it be you? Would it be me?
Would it be the concierge
deciding if it’s a good night
for matchmaking? Do we fit
his image of accidental lovers,
or would he be wicked
in his plotting domestic traveling
disturbance? Or perhaps he just wants
to see what could happen—lets it drop
into the can
without remembering if
he secured us in or out,
or not at all.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 