And the quiet one
slips out and down the back
stairwell. I still take that twist
of steps myself but have forgotten
the smell of the rail
corridor. Anyone can die
at any moment. Anyone can nose
around to detect the real
me now that the smoke
has cleared. I can breathe deeply
and know there was a life—and
this is fragile.
rail corridor
Shape-shifter
I am discarded ice
sculpture. Placed
alongside a loading
dock outside the rail
corridor, I will not melt
this far north. I’m a swan,
pedestal, easel-shaped. I’m
what’s left after a party
where I might have been
the center
of attention, or highly visible
aside. Now I am what you see
when you escape out the back—or
just dream of it
while taking another drag.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 