To reinstall a river
from the north
without proper execution
could dry up
hearts and drown
last ditch efforts
to believe
in the truth
about these falls.
To rent a story you can’t
call your own
is no less
an act of gossip
than the squatter’s jaw
motion on hot,
moonless nights.
Nude Imagine a pocket door of glass
block. Imagine
an etching of a figure leaning
against an ash tree upon that sand
recycled curtain, a drain of cold
water cascading
around her limbs. It is
June. It is raining. It is
midnight. There is no moon,
nothing to place an image upon.
It is nude.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 