No more talking
about the weather, a giant
dragonfly dangles
from the ceiling
inside a giant
library. Her services
are no longer needed. Justice
will prevail
or fail without her. It’s January—
other topics
can be scarce.
weather
Latitudes Off Kilter
Close enough is never enough
to align your hips
with my waist
no matter how long I ride
this train going south. I overshoot
the dream by a zone
or two. It’s up to me
to make adjustments. In your permanent
state—you won’t budge. But
weather is everywhere—weather is
god. I am everywhere wondering where
you’ve gone to weather god.
Outage
Within minutes
of waking, she loses
power. What gets restored
smells different
in a more constant
light. It’s here, there—observed,
or not. If she can turn herself in
to weather in all its variations,
(in)visibility, she might just fit
inside this untethered moment.
From West 15th
In rain and close
air, the empty park haunts
her view of what could
have been. More solitude
than romance, determination
not despair, yet this damp
quietude distorts all patterns. Subdued
till a lone man trots along
the southern path. A leather jacket
will need peeling
in sudden heat. And still
she can’t see where ghosts go
to sweat it out.
“The Most Fatally Fascinating Thing in America”*
“The stark, unutterable pity,
To be dead, and never again behold my city.”
—James Weldon Johnson, from “My City”
What if this is how it’s going to be—
atmospheric screen frozen,
no rebooting. Only one season left,
all natural warmth from the sun
a myth
our ancestors handed us
on a microwavable platter. The raw
movement dies from lack
of passion.
No more fire
in the belly, no more burning
desire to create friction—
to get next to you. This table wobbles.
That type set to tell on those paintings
has shrunk
to a grunt. I’ve lost
the secret code to maintain
an allusion. This uncoordination
has nothing to do with my left hand.
* James Weldon Johnson, from The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man.
Into this Autumnal Equinox
This rain may mute
the full moon tonight,
may turn my thoughts to wet
brain, incurable
delusion, doubt, immobility.
I cannot blame
those clouds or any weather
pattern for this disease
of selfish, vicious obsession. It fights
back by sitting in wait
to rot my body—power
greater than myself. I won’t decay
today, will walk into spitting
wind to become present
inside a drop of cannot know.
Brown Foams
“What is the Mississippi River?—a washed clod in the rainy night, a soft plopping from drooping Missouri banks, a dissolving, a riding of the tide down the eternal waterbed . . . down along . . . and out.”
—Jack Kerouac, On the Road
Heavy legs won’t lift
the feet so easily over
cobblestoned walkways
on the West Bank. I make believe it’s winding
north, but I’m the one
doing the twisting slowly upward. The water flows
south over falls that used to be
natural spilling below. Louisiana
steam has backwashed against the current
to fill up this Minnesota atmosphere.
It could happen. Anything is possible. Weather is everywhere—
weather is god. I am everywhere
weathering god.
Night & Day Poems of Amy Nash 