Borrowed Poetry

Let Nothing Stand 

between the elm and the boy

under its branches, between

cars grumbling at a light,

their drivers mute behind glass,

hands at two o'clock and ten,

let nothing stand between the wand

of the conductor and the breath

of the flutist, between the wind

and sweating brow of the house

painter halfway up a ladder

against a gutter of last year's leaves,

let nothing stand between holiness

and laziness, between head and groin

from which we spilled into a world

of tables and tight corners and hard

choices, let nothing stand between

the river and cliff and blue

jay that sews them together whose

eggs fill the crotch of the swaying tree

above these lines, as day rolls up 

and stars spread out, let nothing stand

between us that doesn't dissolve

with a closing of eyes and opening

of arms, and after arms are gone,

let nothing at all stand that

was once between everything,

whatever it was, the fence of years,

the fence of dollars, miles, fears

of ending the dance, between
the heart that grieves and the one

that surges here behind the elm

within your hands, be still

and follow, dear

Fitting In

soon I will fit

You used to fit in the sink,

under the desk, and in the fireplace --

where no one saw. Your broad face

fit in every frame on the wall. Blink!

in the palm of your hand

Now you fit nowhere at all,

not in shoes, tutus, boardrooms,

or brunches for ten. The rooms

of the world are small, you think.

turning me over and over

How true, how true. Outgrow a drink

like Alice did, a maze of arms and legs

sticking out windows, head in space.

This is what happens on big birthdays.

light as I am

(From The Afterlives of Trees, poems by Wyatt Townley)