Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal

To Become Color Merely

Josh Nash

Aspirations churn rapidly until they are without time enough.
Here they can only phase by the fire,
wind toward a cusp,
oscillate as light
to become color merely,
attenuated and nipped
into wobbly-mouthed corners that stab for a smile.

There are too few hours in a day,
too few carings and too many offenses,
thick like skin or thoughtful
or in the grey water-brain.
Aurora grazes our hairs but for an instant,
just to vanish
with a thrust.

They wear their furs of alpaca
from the farm four families down,
no doubt sighing for them
in movements,
yet muddle their yearning highbrow loafer
and take to the rails,
casting a spiraled wrist,
sheepishly careening into the brook of absence.
Our tongues quake
shying the blazes
changed and restful.

With nights repeated,
the fingers crush themselves
to bone and chalk,
washed by the lamp of a pudgy man,
an effigy linened and sweating
and soaked in purple wine.
The dayglow dims
with lesser and lesser stretches in which to wade.

Ambition eats its hands and returns
as marble for the shelves
to gather the thought-soot
of a real decision unabashed.


Josh Nash is a frizzy-haired, efflorescing poet inspired by Whitman, Kerouac, Lowell, Snyder, Hafiz (the Sufi master), and Native American poetry. He is eighteen years old and currently resides in rural Sumner County, Tennessee.

© Josh Nash

Muscadine Lines: A Southern Journal ISSN 1554-8449, Copyright © 2004-2012