Found footage, a blue filter
to distinguish night
from its counterpoint.
That these black-and-
white flicker cycles
could be finite, she’s beginning
to see how
the distinction will snap
away, all filters exposed
without purpose, no farewell
or final letter to the moon
and everything it contains. A private explosion
without a witness, her evening
will come.
I resort to artificial tears
when unexpected
wind dries up my view.
When I reach that confluence
where I must drop
it, so I can heal, I’ll be ready
to swallow easy. My eyes
will no longer resemble
the backside of my tongue.
The weeping didn’t
last. Even briefer
than the heart on heightened
alert. Even briefer than a moon
to moon gap. Should I become
a faucet, I hope to filter out
all of that gritty pride.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 