Poem. This isn’t a Poem. Nicholas Trandahl. 


This isn’t a Poem. Nicholas Trandahl. 

Things are just quietly existing

like the stars in the night sky

and the leaves in the trees-

always aloof of plots.

There’s my typewriter-

quiet and heavy on my desk.

There’s a tumbler-

empty but for the lemon slices

that rest in the bottom

in a shallow slick of fluid.

There’s the smell of trout

sautéed in my favorite pan-

lemon pepper and sea salt to season.

There’s the taste of a cigar

still acrid on my tongue.

There’s the rumpled sheets

in our darkened bedroom

that smell of recent sex-

the air faintly humid

from our exertions.

There’s the soft curve of her hip-

her bare back to me

and her heavy breathing

rhythmic with slumber.

There’s a wind gusting outside

in the cloudless night

and stars shining beyond the leaves-

especially that red star

that’s been smoldering like an ember

on the southern horizon

for the last couple weeks.

There’s the tall old cottonwoods

hissing their chaotic dirge

at the death of summer,

and I am quite sure

there are few sounds

better than the leaves.

There’s the quietude

of this household

in the heart of the night.

There’s the last thought

before the descent into the dreams

that I won’t remember

when the morning comes.


More poetry by Nick Trandahl can be found in his book Pulling Words, published by Winter Goose Publishing. You can also find an interview with Nick Trandahl at Selcouth Station.

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