Chase Twichell Poems
|1.||To The Reader: Polaroids||1/20/2003|
|6.||The Blade of Nostalgia||7/28/2015|
|7.||The Immortal Pilots||7/16/2014|
|13.||To The Reader: If You Asked Me||1/20/2003|
|18.||A Negative Of Snow||7/16/2014|
|20.||Stirred Up By Rain||1/20/2003|
|21.||Hunger For Something||7/16/2014|
|22.||To The Reader: Twilight||1/20/2003|
Don't tell me we're not like plants,
sending out a shoot when we need to,
or spikes, poisonous oils, or flowers.
Come to me but only when I say,
that's how plants announce
the rules of propagation.
Even children know this. You can
see them imitating all the moves
with their bright plastic toys.
So that, years later, at the moment
the girl's body finally says yes
to the end of childhood,
a green pail with an orange shovel
will appear in her mind like a tropical
blossom she has never seen before.
To The Reader: Twilight
Whenever I look
out at the snowy
mountains at this hour
and speak directly
into the ear of the sky,
it's you I'm thinking of.
You're like the spirits
the children invent
to inhabit the stuffed horse
and the doll.
I don't know who hears me.
I don't know who speaks
when the horse speaks.