From anxiety to anatomy
of influence, thievery gets defined. Found
beneath invisible matrix lines, each love
letter wears thins till nothing
shows through but the see through
garment of regret. Is that our inheritance?
Can it be something other than
glitter on silk-screened
flowers—daisies or wisteria drive me
up the stucco wall. Nothing precious
about that garden you wear
on your chest—beyond our trembling reach.
. . . do I count them
before or after
this verbal thievery? If I live
in the past, may as well revel
in this day come nightfall.
Twenty years is a long time to be
entranced by a voice. The voice. It stops
my soul from deflating
under self-reflexive pressure. The voice
that fills a dark room as if
it’s been doing it
since long before I was born. This is
the voice that invites me
to stop leaving out
the moment we’re in now. Who knew.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 