When she disappears
into the atmosphere, will you
remember the shape her mouth was in
when she last said
your name, when she stepped back
from that kiss? A poet skirts
in and around surfaces
seeking a place to attach herself to.
It’s a barnacle
life—she’s always preferred the underside
of piers.
Entangled in a net of no one
to blame’s making, I forget
what I said yesterday
about this pier and its hurricane
scars. About to begin
another plunge into dense
deconstructions
of choppy water. About to listen
for those dirges we prepared, buried
in this sand before I began
to follow musicians around with this
spill—I don’t forget theirs,
they come ashore with ease.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 