In rain and close
air, the empty park haunts
her view of what could
have been. More solitude
than romance, determination
not despair, yet this damp
quietude distorts all patterns. Subdued
till a lone man trots along
the southern path. A leather jacket
will need peeling
in sudden heat. And still
she can’t see where ghosts go
to sweat it out.
Loring Park
Moving Up Loring
The devil’s backbone takes
her breath to feed
the artesian well that spills
into the pond she hopes
to see from her sunroom
window this time next year.
Surd
That mannequin torso
I see inside the second floor corner
apartment window facing West 15th
is no Apollo. Has nothing
but its center shell
that won’t encase a heart to shape
and display a wool great
coat, button
down cotton shirt, knit shawl, black
choker, silk tie. From an icy street,
I study its lamplight glow after dark
and suddenly remember
I have one too. And
she hasn’t lost her head.
To the Fair
A tree drops a limb for me
and misses. The gift
of life detaching
to become a random crack
against concrete.
On my walk on,
I won’t take it so hard.
Circle Poem
The last of the public
pay phones, a dial tone to nowhere
backwards in a dog
park is a hunt
for diamonds, is easier
for some to fathom. Me,
I don’t know how
to wear them, am seeking
other gems.
Connecting Flight
Free to walk in the rain
in a park—to imagine a dial
tone from the sole remaining
pay phone on the southeast corner
where the sun might have crept in
another afternoon. It might dry up
in time for true blues
on a plaza, for a baseball game
to play out in a new stadium
where birds get in free.
Irene Hixon Whitney Bridge
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.
Father of Minneapolis Parks
The first in the city
to have electric
lights. A hinge
to flex downtown
lane over lane flung
onto outdoor sculpture
with a cherry on
top. I’m at the bottom
of this brown hill
imagining a summer
evening: Civil
twilight and a great blue
heron—my current hero’s
plugging in
near the Dandelion
Fountain. He wouldn’t get too close
to the water. Weeds are wild
flowers with a bad reputation.
The way I build up,
demolish, recreate
my heroes, mine could be worse.
No Molesting Vegetation
I want to make a wish
at an artesian well. Take me
to the old comfort
station near the 125-year-old iron
footbridge. No longer providing relief
to men, women, children passing by,
it aerates the pond. Who will
aerate me?
From this curved history, I can see
a pond in transition—
half ice, half water freed
from the long arm
of Minnesota winter. I don’t need
a hug from that set
of limbs. I’ve wiggled out
of that passive
aggressive affair. Lately, I take
winter in layers, leave it
behind when the last chunk
dissolves to crack open
a warmer motion.
I no longer dread
seeing the old lover—he’s got nothing
on me these days. I know how
to remain unattached. I’m ready
to place my feet before the well,
to drop the coin in.
Black and White Sky Over Loring Park
A winter’s civil twilight breaks
open a black bird swarm.
That caw commotion over church bells
reveals how little she knows.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 