These little books
are my dates
on nights I choose
a spine to keep me
entertained. My little problem is
I choose jellyfish
instead of men. Tonight
there will be no trouble.
Poetry
Recount
Four children four
seasons—does it begin
with spring or winter?
It all depends—
whether we are dormant
before we live, whether
we can begin again, whether
autumn counts at all.
Living Outside the Notes (Day 2,963)
Ink smears over knuckles,
a left-hander drags
her thoughts through the past.
No moment
is left clean.
On the Beam
I can imagine Matteo Pericoli out there
beneath the Brooklyn Bridge counting
trusses and cables and stays. I can
see the world go blue against white
detailing and tiny capital
letters that march arrogantly into
the empty.
Never could keep them
so straight and clean and strong.
My architecture doesn’t lay out
pretty. Still, if I were a character
in a novel, this is
where it would really begin.
Urban Verglas
Bus stops disappear
into the sides
of mountains—snow
and ice, call 311 on a cell,
before climbing to the top
of insignificance.
Black Ice
I will map my avoidance a story
above fear. Frozen
or thawed, it’s got fangs. Transparent
or glazed, it coats the edges
of my motion toward makeshift tunnel
openings. Burrow or bite, the shiny
isn’t always so sweet.
Dabble
Now they say
swans divorce
too. I’m no pen,
no bird, no living
thing seeking to break
up another swim.
Frozen beyond stillness,
this land invites
illusion just to keep
frost bite muzzled tonight.
Otherwise Mute
The ideas we trouble
today become the ghosts
in our machines
tonight. That I judge
you the way you
me is our modern dance
so gravity laden
the ballet has become
extinct. In my wild
dreams about uncovering
empathy with swans,
sea otters, I am
the untroubled one, you
the same who floats
beside me on this channel surface.
Song from a Petri Dish
Microscope left on the piano
no one plays
tonight. Parades in the cold
silence this close study
of notes. Lids down,
I can hear
the blizzards that hum
without strings.
Night Poem
Upside down hurricane
lamps hang
from a ceiling’s exposed
bones in a place
called SPACE. Drapes
for walls, everyone can see
what the cooks are doing
with the night.
There’s nowhere
in this space
to hide. And yet
the singer won’t appear
till it’s time.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 