Her nerves wrap around a mystery
she doesn’t need to solve
till they become entrapped. Nothing
gets solved. May as well make
like an archaic torso
of a god—lamp lit—
and change your life.
Everyone is a thief
in the dark after hours.
stone
Traffic Break
It’s been a year—I wouldn’t turn
to stone or tin
if I ran into you on the sidewalk
in the shadow
of your tower. That we haven’t crossed
paths since we decided to cross
each other off
the list is a sign. Our lanes
weren’t meant to merge
on any slope—slippery or not.
Traction Conversion
Echoes from last week’s conversation,
a speech delivered
on a candy dish a week ago, a small stone dropping
into the river before
I was born. As my body becomes less
elastic, other tolerances may
snap to. I may not
be able to turn my head to the left so easily,
but I could trust
he’ll be there to catch me or be
my eyes. Only the stone
can say for sure.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 