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.
prohibition
Dead Relative Society Minutes
This Wuthering Heights morning
will give way to nothing
more than a Kentucky afternoon
into a Mississippi River night. Ice
dams and avalanches
and floods—let them be.
What will be will be
on moor, in prohibition speak
easy cave, under Prairie
School eave overnight.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 