Nathan Hauke


New River Train

Oh darlin,

you can't love only one

and have any fun.

Late coffee bewilders
Torn bluets AHdorned by lampyridae
Asking for the widest possible definition of presence           
As elegy is glass, turpentine, and rags to remember the dead
Crickets scrape and file beneath our windows
A grave harmony to knit black over green
Until we can't tell leaves from the crown
When I take off my glasses to clean them
Headlights sweep the road into spectral haze
Pulling weeds and sweet clover into the truck's
Momentum as it passes

Thoreau: I said to myself—I said to others





Moth eaten stones
Loosed from the old dam wall
Into the withered grandeur of ragwort
WE WERE YOUNG TOGETHER, a fishing boat tied to the dock
Is suddenly un-tethered and pushed out into current
Dull glint of tinsel near the old tree dump
As money flowers or doesn't flower in a stranger's wallet
Like a branch reaching through milky sky


Clash on the radio
Pretty blue
Hint of movement
Where condensation frays an edge
Into peripheral green blur




Gravel and pine needles

Scattered path near a copse of moss-scraped beeches
Fiddlehead fern with gunshots of light in the leaves
Time abandoned to eternity as busted branch to forest floor
We spread out   like foam in current
A part of and apart from what's eating us
Dear Brenda,    Few green spinners flashing keys
Make way for gospel in the crow's caw
Kid's chalk drawing of flowers on the sidewalk             washes away.
The hoof peels up out of the mud.            Thistle out of plaster of paris.
Orange ribbon tied to the tent-line of a blue window.
Rusted-out backboard, thunderheads to trouble clover
Fat girl in a stretched out t-shirt that reads, "I didn't slap you.
I high-fived you in your face."