These immobilization fees
don’t cover what she does
with her left wrist. Flicks serifs
off letters the way she used to release
ashes from her smokes, the way
I might dismiss her
without understanding what she might be
building in that empty lot. April snow lasts
only so long—then she’ll write this off too.
A dime in the street
becomes two touching
a flatness tires can’t roll
away. Infinity sleeps outside
before summer solstice
in the rain. With morning, it rises
to become a figure eight
on air—hold the ice.
Keep going, dare
ascendance and serifs. By midday,
it just might become
this ampersand above
tree canopies flirting
with young gulls and moths.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 