2 poems
by Nathan Lipps
singing, even now
Like anything
the foliage of the mind
drowning as the waters gently rise.
We become accustomed
to this slow fading out
inevitably.
But we can yet walk
along the streets and see
a face we love.
It’s more than a joy
that quick flashing
and gone.
It’s not postponing
the assault
of the body.
It’s not leaving the hospital
after the cure
the bright day waiting.
It could be
noticing that cigarette butt
white against the gray of the parking lot
ground down to its idea.
Knowing someone smoked it
with their wonderful lungs
that they arrived
at the end of a thing
successfully.
That they left it here.
That they were here
where you stand.
That they exist despite
their familiarity
with living
as you do
alone
in none of it.
storm newly common
The sound as branches
because the pressure is constant
leave behind the one thing
they’ve known.
Tonight ten thousand houses
will lose power. Standing outside
shouting you will forget
the purpose of voice.
Some of the birds weather it
by existing tomorrow
the rest remain a song.
And tomorrow another storm.
Branches like potential children
deposited in a field.
Nathan Lipps lives and works in the Midwest. He teaches at Central State University. His work can be found at North American Review, Colorado Review, TYPO, and elsewhere.
