Common Roots not the CC
these days. Urban beavers, the storms
of early summer leave barricades
to lake connecting channel paths
I want to follow. I bless
reversible steps—duck and dart
back through without
a scratch. Not going to play pool
in a darkened bar on a sunny afternoon
the way we used to waste
time. I’m still learning the definition
of precious. You’re in it—
and gone forever.
The real growth occurs inside
late night’s lining. Restless
potted plants will barricade his view
of the next scheduled manmade
flood. This habitat
for pigeons has no vacancy. To live
within practice distance of a stadium
would be less disruptive than this collision
of storage histories. Cardboard
for her road show won’t do.
They come in all sizes
to unlock doors, lock them
up again. They open
mail boxes, barricade cabinets and diaries
from curious eyes. Chiming
in my loose pocket, they turn
security into a musical instrument
before doubling back as a weapon
on dark, empty streets. They anchor
me to the city. A weight inside,
they keep me
from floating off
the ring around lost
before found.
Would she know
balance if
it knocked her off
this pedestrian bridge
she stands on? Closed
for repairs starting tomorrow,
it could be
another unreliable witness.
From stifling coolness
within a parking garage,
from the graphite transfer sound
of a freight elevator shifting floors,
from the deliberate stride
of his black work boots—echo
his escape, his eyes,
three lines.
He motions the wall to tumble,
telephone wires to tense outside
a window, a barricade
withdrawn. He can no longer conceal,
wills stasis to crumble
into being, the outsized beauty
of his surround
crates toward a red bird sky.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 