01.4.2007

Three Poems

Dusk

The chime of an ice cream truck
materializes. A moth ticks obliquely
against a darkening screen.

              (This could be any world.
              This could be any nerve.

This
is the crucially useless circus
in which I rehearse the bruise  
I miss you.

              There will always be
              a hand beyond
              weather —

fire’s immediacy
in sharpest frost.

 

• • •

 

The Misfits

For breaking’s
sake, be far
away.

        — you know
           corrosion

           grates
           shapes.)

As in
Christmas cards to which
we’ll never reply, to which
scissors fit in

half
light.

 

• • •

 

Allergy

Just because I feel disease
doesn’t mean
it’s mine.

            ( Altitude
            flinches.

           An apple
           splits.)

By way of highest pollen,
this flower-pain
is yours.

Shannon Tharp (© 2007)