That ballerina on the back
of a bus, inventions
to relieve
sinus pressure before
all the trees
bloom. For the one who walks
alongside—wild
flowers mostly. And rants the color
of wisteria
early on.
Minneapolis
No More Hints
Strong evidence
of tobacco use on the corner
outside the library. I should
know. Have checked out
for five all but one
year of my life
in this town. A red
Q on this book
cover is no longer
a question. Quality days
begin to stack up
against an invisible wall. Collections
have their place. I don’t
miss the smoke.
Pace Off
The mayor declares no
more skyways. Till what? We learn how
to design the perfect
compass for indoor air? Now that I know
my way around up there after two
decades, I will not give
them up. A hybrid
walk might spread in all directions
on all levels—inside and out.
Blanks
The public safety
building skyway has nothing
in its display case. No hint
of what got abandoned, what could become
enclosed in glass. She could
start over. Wind her way
through 7+ miles
of second floor passageways.
Could comment on the return
of Minnesota winter. But
another tabula rasa
might serve best to shake
her free of this burden of shoulder
shrugging routine.
Channels
This is no Big Sur, Dingle
Peninsula, Wasque—
this is somewhere
in the middle. A river
that has starred
as the main character
in novels, caused cities to be
built, become a final stop
for the tormented
and despairing. It is a river
that should be frozen
by now. That only its fringes
cutting against its banks
are covered in a thin sheet
of ice is another story
that needs to be
told. And I’m no narrator
for the fresh or salt.
Where’s the Frozen River?
I sit beneath a painting of Kerouac
in thick shades
of gray and try to digest
the fact that I am older than he
will ever be. I should
be so privileged to pass
Emily and Virginia. I’ll prefer
mine lilac and thinner
than the rim of ice
hovering along these northern banks
of the Mississippi. This January
moves unnaturally fast.
Downtown Serenity Hour
Today’s investigation, a brand new
skyway smells like
a new car with music seeping through
its air vents. It takes me
through a different artery in the maze. Roots grow
to the first floor becomes a pink lit
W Hotel lobby. A vintage Foshay Tower
elevator car secures
me to the 27th floor. Spectacular view—yes. Cocktails—
yes. Eleven dollar nuts
and nothing else for the likes of me. I could ask
for an espresso but
this is enough discovery for one civil
twilight. Outside’s halo holds
only a spit of pink
inside heliotrope.
They Call It Prohibition
I dream of sipping espresso
from a tiny ceramic cup
in a hotel bar high
above the streets
and skyway. And I tower
over a city that dreams
bigger than it looks. They call it
Prohibition—it’s not illegal
for an alcoholic
to recover the view.
Latitudes Off Kilter
Close enough is never enough
to align your hips
with my waist
no matter how long I ride
this train going south. I overshoot
the dream by a zone
or two. It’s up to me
to make adjustments. In your permanent
state—you won’t budge. But
weather is everywhere—weather is
god. I am everywhere wondering where
you’ve gone to weather god.
Dear Miss
The poetry’s in
the unconsummation
and this latitude
we almost finally share.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 