Head tilted forward,
she studies
his face, hopes
to learn how to bend
notes to put them
in a jar, poke holes
so they can breathe, warp,
turn into something
else. She’s afraid to dream
what that might be.
metamorphosis
Metamorphosis in Two Spheres
A dime in the street
becomes two touching
a flatness tires can’t roll
away. Infinity sleeps outside
before summer solstice
in the rain. With morning, it rises
to become a figure eight
on air—hold the ice.
Keep going, dare
ascendance and serifs. By midday,
it just might become
this ampersand above
tree canopies flirting
with young gulls and moths.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 