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.
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.
He said he had a taste for it.
On the same road, a squirrel
was doing the Watusi to free itself
from its crushed hindquarters.