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[amyknash]

Outrun

Flasks of airimported from the ArcticCircle. The soundbehind the soundbeing peeled apart.Geese honk outof sync as they flyoverhead. Eastward bound,they know something.I should know better.No rabbits, no wildturkeys to be found. Ambivalentclouds become less so.Thunder breaks the momentinto dozens of pieces. No, I change my mind. It starts.I get wet. Rust-huedleaves with edges outlinedin chartreuse…

[amyknash]

45th of August | Habitual

It’s one of those mornings whenI only see chipmunksscurry across the wooded Cedar Lake trail—neverwith the urban gray (sometimes black,occasionally white) squirrelsthat try to trip me in Loring Park.One of those morningswhen the skyschvitzes with me, and larch trees begin to hintat the gold ahead. Whentiny soccer players take over the field, anda gardener trims the grapevineswithout a whisper to…

[amyknash]

Summer's End

The buzz of dog-daycicadas (not the periodical kind) in trees throughout neighborhoodsI frequent on weekends.Crickets too. It’s morning.I don’t care what the experts say.I hear them. And I hear a little boytell a little girl: “I’m just saying quit while you’re ahead.While they’re still shaking their tymbals.” No, he didn’t really say that last part.I look down. Bloodand fur. Where did the rest…

[amyknash]

Bounce

Behold the beamingcity viewed from a rooftopterrace after dark.This same citysome claim burnedto the ground.Behold the breezethat hints of other seasons.And branches—nature’sfallen soldiers scatteredacross this city.Storms define this summer.Behold bees as they hoveraround evergreen debris.They know something.They always know something.A bolted benchstands in what has becomeanother crook in the…

[amyknash]

No Comparison

I almost miss the deerthat stands still as a heronon the hillsideon the other sideof the parkway—those long legs I envy slightly bent.A male cardinal flaps its wings, redas patinaed barn doors.A true sign of August:the prairie bluestemhas grown taller than me.Before I turn ontothe western stretchof the trail, I realizea simile is like a poem written by a junior high student. A metaphor isa…

[amyknash]

Meandering & 100% Pedestrian

You want to walk on wordsin sidewalk slabs(the way you canin cities with namesthat begin with “saint”)and seek shade beneath a purpleleaf plum tree. You say hi to a manwith low visionjust beyond a park benchplaced in a clearingsurrounded by wildflowers gone wild. Youwant to believe he seesbeyond. You want to ask himif he thinks summermight have become too full of life—thickwith a palette of too…

[amyknash]

From Your Afterlife Perch

You see the storm beforetiny hail stones ping offmy long-billed capas I run the trail. You knowthree poems I’ve writtenabout you will be publishedbefore I receivethe acceptance email.You hear the robin singbefore she opens her mouth.You smell the wild rosesalong East Chop Drivebefore I reach the island.You hear my ginger scentshatter into tiny pieceson the bathroom floorbefore I put it on the…

[amyknash]

Local

Were those pigeons on the window sill yesterdayfighting, or? A female cardinal tiltsher head and fluttersher wings, and I’m inlove. Robins and rabbits(mostly tiny ones)dart in and outof the prairie grassand abundanceof wildflowers. A great blueheron on the southern bankof Cedar Lake shows no fear beside the trailas I pass. Me, startled, it,so still. Did the squirrel fall,or was it pushed,from the…

[amyknash]

Not Scientifically Proven

It rains more on Fridays in summer. That great blueheron standing long-legged (and bending)in your path is the same bird you saw wading in another lake a month ago. The red-winged blackbird that slashed the air behind the backof your skull can tell you’re becoming[ambivalent | deliberate | asexual | disinterested | astounded | distilled]The hens and toms congregating across the street and giant…

[amyknash]

The Blue Machine Churns

Each drop of wateris connectedto the next. An ocean murmursinside me. Even here,among prairie grassesand deer half hidden within a grove of cedarsand birches, shiftingtides define me.

[amyknash]

Uncertain Aesthetic

If I could not taste you, coffee, would I still want you? If I could not hear you, song, would I still play you? If I could not see you, sky, would I still believe in you? If I could not smell you, wildfire, would I still fear you? If I could not touch you, island, would I still be alive?

[amyknash]

By Accident

I’ve been bumpinginto trees my whole life.The mushroom talesand solve for infinity equationswe’ve dreamed up—only possible when armsand bark collide. The waywe shade the wood ducksand mallards and Canada geese and rockpigeons and robins andred-winged blackbirdsand one great blue heronbeside the wetland islandinside the northern limbof the lake. The waytheir bumping spacecould only arisefrom the…

[amyknash]

Solar Storming Sonnet

A weekend in the waiting room, she’s afraidfor the ducklings she hasn’t seen in days. In the waitingroom, she’s hopingthe mama has hidden them in the cattails—in the lake’s waitingroom where we can’t find anything beyond ourselves. Desperate to know. Murky outbursts tucked inside the city’s light pollution our only entertainment.

[amyknash]

This Face Is

a questionI cannot answer. I might ask the latestbrood of goslingsthat appears with their parentsbeside the lake.(Pray I don’t startle them).Or I could ask the double rainbow high in the sky before it fades. Or the disembodied voiceas it makes an emergency announcement over the PA. The student union is closingearly due to protestersconnecting their voicesto their bodies outside.I’m afraid to ask…

[amyknash]

How Cruel April

Sometimes it snowsjust as the cherry trees blossom,the forsythia has bloomed,the willows are flowing green.The roadside Siberian squillhas delivered its flowering bluenessfor the season. I mistakeits basal leaves for bladesof ordinary grass. I’m no gardener. Moredelighted by the wood ducksas they mingle with pigeonsbeside the old iron footbridge.Someone has removedthe half-eaten rabbitand used…

[amyknash]

Random Sightings

I see a bruised skyabove empty streets at dawn.I don’t ask if the sky fought back.Is that Ruth Stone’s “still whitestilted heron” I see, no longer still—now swooping acrossthe small park lake? I don’t askfor permission before bendingmy own knees in the opposite directionas a sign of solidarity.No train in sight to ride.I see a photograph of ice disks in the midst of slamming against their…

[amyknash]

If You Were Brave

You would walk the bleedingedges of this dormant wildgarden barefoot in March beforeit begins. You would cross mud-seeping stepping stones surrounded by sideways-growingmossdown the slopeonto a windingwoonerf he dreams upfor you in the middleof the night. You would risk it—leave the safety of city lights to see a waning gibbous moon glow againin the distance. You would travelby helicopter or…