A transformer explodes, a squirrel
dies, civil twilight crashes
into darkness faster than my fingers
can touch the right digits
for relief. To open this book
of scents written by a left
hand to a stranger is exposure
I might not survive. To hide
the ink stains of impressionistic
thought is to remain in a corner
that might not be found
by a flashlight search and repair.
If it’s truly darkest
before the dawn and you are
on the other side waiting to be
born, I will not hang
my head low
these long nights. Will dig
a flashlight
out of a dumpster
to shine a beam
on the word
trust
before it’s too late.
A fire in the machine,
someone wants a flashlight
clean if not erased. Early
to everything, she never leaves her complete
linen stagnant, never forgets to remove lint
from communal mesh. Never
fashionable, she brings this notebook
into empty clubs. She’s never really alone—
knows her way in any kind of darkness.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 