To hang sconces
so low they could poke
an eye out. To climb
a ladder left
to rot beside
a dead pigeon still
in perfect form. To bruise
the right
wrist when the left
ankle is already packed
in ice. To be so
vulnerable is no more
bad luck than
cracking up in full
length mirrors.
Friday the 13th
Stands Over Friday the Thirteenth
She walks the long way
around building façade
restoration scaffolding.
In this wind and light
rain, weather is no longer
superstition. Weather is
serendipity. When libraries become
verbs, new subjects will appear and succumb
to a state of being
searchable. And she’ll brush
the leftover syllables
into the gutter
for another Friday.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 