Chase Twichell Poems

The mower flipped it belly up,
a baby garter less than a foot long,
dull green with a single sharp
...

I want you with me, and yet you are the end
of my privacy. Do you see how these rooms
have become public? How we glance to see if--
who? Who did you imagine?
...

A kid said you could chew road tar
if you got it before it cooled,
black globule with a just-forming skin.
He said it was better than cigarettes.
...

Whenever I touch the cairn
marking the summit
of one of my parents,
...

On the first warm day,
the aides fret about his pate,
fetch his hat. I push him
...

After my father's cremation,
my sisters and I agreed
to bury him privately
...

The noise throws down
twin shadows, hunting shadows
on a black joy ride.
...

The first night at the monastery,
a moth lit on my sleeve by firelight,
long after the first frost.
...

Above the blond prairies,
the sky is all color and water.
The future moves
from one part to another.
...

When fed into the crude, imaginary
machine we call the memory,

the brain's hard pictures
...