Nathan Spoon



Off to Lunch


A chrysanthemum blossom withers a-
gainst pavement. Saliva swells in ob-
livion’s jutting mouth. Rain-scent lingers

in the air. | Who in the lamplight is
turning from Hill to Bradley? No skink’s
a chameleon. In headlights the red fox

clears our black bumper in a tidal of
blind demarcation. Another night, years
ago, I drove alone | too fast through

rain. Until my Bonneville sang tires off
road, then broke its body breaking trees.



Sharply by Her


Spooled: the clarifying evasions wind
and unwind. And the child in the front
yard possessing enough reason to observe

that the bumblebee, as it fumbled clover
blooms, was also a child | and so per-
haps would tolerate a gentle touch,

ran crying through the front door. Epi-
sodic epipsychidion openly penned for
the qualified few. She wearing red and

holding her spear will not require the
eating for your heart | even as she does.




Nathan Spoon was born in Newport, Rhode Island. His poems have appeared in Oxford Poetry, Reflections (Yale Divinity School), From the Lighthouse, the anthology What Have You Lost?, and limited edition chapbooks. He currently works as a bookseller at Parnassus Books in Nashville, Tennessee.
 
 
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