It smells ripe
today—the river. Hope
its wreaking havoc
is done by the time those waters
flow over your bed,
against your banks,
under other bridges
sturdy so far.
Minneapolis
Toward 26th & Lyndale
Common Roots not the CC
these days. Urban beavers, the storms
of early summer leave barricades
to lake connecting channel paths
I want to follow. I bless
reversible steps—duck and dart
back through without
a scratch. Not going to play pool
in a darkened bar on a sunny afternoon
the way we used to waste
time. I’m still learning the definition
of precious. You’re in it—
and gone forever.
Raw Evaporation
Those fears are no
shows. Disappointment comes
in all shades of red
strained through gray. A night free
of summer’s oppression. Without
sweat, she swears
she can differentiate
between a music
town and one impurely industry.
Roots System Hardiness
Minneapolis, zone 4 more so
than 5. New York City, 7. Only odd ones
get full excavation
treatment for this reassembled
world. Don’t forget tonight’s hard
working crooner, guitar
string shredder. Buy the music
for now and for another
night, for this and another
man who would put himself
back together in new time—
more so than zone.
On this Day in 1995
The Mississippi River is a poem.
I slip through city pores
to its west then south then west
bank. It will not be shaped
by coordinates. Will not lay down easy
for measurement.
How to become plum with a poem is
a gritty quest with a solution that won’t be fixed.
Half Hitched
I want to climb into your chute and go
where you’ll take me. Part of the longest continuous network
anywhere, you’ve lost
something. A building? Parking ramp? Human
contact? Asymmetry
is an addiction. Skyway to nowhere,
feed me.
Upper Saint Anthony Falls Lock and Dam
As old as me—water
held to rise
level to the north, water
rushes out
level to the south.
The only true falls
the entire length of this mighty river.
I could be the lock master
in another life. Mitre-shaped,
the gates won’t open
till equilibrium returns. I wish
mine worked so well
after all these years.
Things to Do as a Tourist in Your Own Town
Still pretending
to be a guest
in her own city, she reads a tourist
brochure pretending
it is a magazine.
She squints to see
how out of focus
home can become. An entire page
devoted to gentlemen’s clubs.
She doesn’t work it
so much less so each year
as she passes from eligible, young desirable
to this: a visitor
wise enough to know
when to refocus, when
what fades is what goes
on display, passing through
on out. Every town’s got to have a place
to see naked girls
going out of focus
in the dark. Still, she imagines living
in a hotel, turns the page, what else
have you got, city?
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 