Three Poems by Dana Garrett
It was nothing
the stunned trees around
the dark street, cars mocking
from the highway.
maybe the toll of a few
glutted leaves, the usual
shadows, a tune whistled
from the street
nothing to tell of.
perhaps the parted
curtains or something
forgotten long ago. The figure
watching from the yard
go back to sleep.
Within nothing litter from an explosion gathers
in clusters, becomes what gathers
in clusters-- flares briefly here, there
cools with certainty of cold,
but during the flux conducts a bit
of its warm static into what swims,
slithers, heaves its raw head up from mud,
walks, wars, sings of the nothing it is.
Why There Can Be No More Chinese Departure Poems
Under the digital blue theater sign outside the mall,
White faces stream out behind us.
Here we must offer our “Later” and “Yea, later,”
And trek a thousand feet of parking lot in broken glass.
Mind dizzy like a video arcade.
Headlights diverge off distant onramps.
If we can’t meet here tomorrow,
I’ll try your beeper, or cellular, or send e-mail.