Monday, March 20, 2017

Nathan Spoon, Two Poems

Dr. H. Erico Nanist’s Tumescence, 
image by Daniel Y. Harris 

The Lord Sends a Wind

Flies on the baby | bird blown terminally onto
the trail. This is the life of water, triggering a
pinch of pain within tenderest fire; this is the

wall of confusion opening | a portal to a | world
scoured of unreal tragedies; there being no name
for what upholds the citadel or ground of the ever-

expanding song of our Homeric onanist, whose staff
greets the tide-line foaming upon these otherwise
vacant sands; and | yet, when | all of the contained

sand-grains have made narrow passage through the
almost-overlooked-middle, a whale’s fluke departs us.

A Cup of Coffee

An ambiguous I coexistent with a summer afternoon
breeze. | Of course some | quasi-poetical contexts
can make autobiographical trivialities seem to

be less tiresome than | they are. Poetry can entail |

such stuff as |

                            sweating through a t-shirt not with-
standing, especially | when your head is bent forward

slightly and your booted ankles are crossed; for yours
is the sorrow of a | pink-hearted and modestly-spined
seashell. Now a | girl surfs with her | left index to

her lips and then her | left hand twirling her longish
bangs, as the NASA craft gives Pluto | a reading flyby.

—Nathan Spoon