Again she asks
the water
droplet on a corner
table who owns
the land. Who
owns you—precious
liquid, tiny reservoir
of truth? What’s
an embarrassment
of papers mean
in a flood? Or,
incurable thirst? I’ll mop
you up—but
I won’t buy.
property
LaSalle Avenue
Ice bevels
on the sidewalks where property
owners forget what they own. Pedestrian
and unlanded, I perform
penguin walks for too many blocks.
And the sun—the sun, it taunts
the frozen landscape
to no effect.
CT
Whatever happened to Dumptruck? What
got lost in the Portland quarry has been
recycled into Brooklyn brownstone tall
tales. I used to shout: “Get off
my island” too. Followed by the refrain:
“No one owns
the land.” Thought I was so clever
discovering her getaway
path—used to be mine. You didn’t want
to take it till it became
hers. And definitely no one owns
the water between—no matter
what anyone says. That includes you
singing or talking in your sleep.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 