Three Poems by Matt Friday



Note-fish Glittering, bitter blue flames -like desire, your fingers spread and flare across my abdomen: without doubt, both angel and predicament. At last the rain comes- we sleep. A constant stream wells out ocean, soil, sky… Beside the sputtering candle I wake past midnight a chorus of frogs, the wooded shush -in a room grown suddenly small. …Years gone, that midnight’s rush from which I cull like gliding fish notes, some shimmering scrap of what it’s been- asking you send me back something I can touch, something that, when touching, swims.
Spring Something surreal, insistent in the morning’s thin, pale light after a storm- I think of Nijinsky his tableaux, gracefully constrained the halting faun and gazelle caught over and over again, ears cocked, eyes focused through spring and the meadow’s green blaze. (Here, the dancer lifts both arms bent at the elbows, in profile steam rises- in thin air eggs form, glistening around him) and for a moment, I remember a boy frozen before a stand of trees a bright cluster of balloons beside him.
For Just a Moment, Now, There Is This
to Jan Finally it is living that is more heroic than simply dying, giving in- letting death have us as if only clothing, folded, consigned tidily to some drawer. It is the choice to rise, ‘though beautifully like the perishable moon or dew hung tremulously in some leafy bower- the drop will drop at last it must but we will not savage it with impatient hurriedness (no more slow the moon by worry, dreamlessness or absence). In the fullness of some hour curving outward in not-knowing we quiver in a silver scythe of light then drop a velvet, glistening brilliancy at once both frozen here and lost. Matt Friday