— unpredictable thoughts

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Tag "Kay Ryan"

Losses

Most losses add some­thing —
a new socket or silence,
a gap in a per­sonal
arch­i­pel­ago of islands.

We have that dif­fer­ence
to visit—itself
a going-on of sorts.

But there are other losses
so far beyond report
that they leave holes
in holes only

like the ends of the
long and lonely lives
of cast­aways
thoughts dead but not.

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It’s hard not

to jump out

instead of

wait­ing to be

found. It’s

hard to be

alone so long

and then hear

some­one come

around. It’s

like some form

of skin’s developed

in the air

that, rather

than have torn,

you tear.

(“Hide and Seek” was orig­i­nally pub­lished in “The Nia­gara River” by Kay Ryan, Grove Press Poetry Series, 2005.)

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Who would be a tur­tle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared hel­met,
She can ill afford the chances she must take
In row­ing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is grace­less, like drag­ging
A packing-case places, and almost any slope
Defeats her mod­est hopes. Even being prac­ti­cal,
She’s often stuck up to the axle on her way
To some­thing edi­ble. With every­thing opti­mal,
She skirts the ditch which would con­vert
Her shell into a serv­ing dish. She lives
Below luck-level, never imag­in­ing some lot­tery
Will change her load of pot­tery to wings.
Her only lev­ity is patience,
The sport of truly chas­tened things.

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Who, who had only seen wings,
could extrap­o­late the
skinny sticks of things
birds use for land,
the back­ward way they bend,
the silly way they stand?
And who, only study­ing
bird­tracks in the sand,
could think those lit­tle forks
had decamped on the wind?
So many paired things seem odd.
Who ever would have dreamed
the broad winged raven of despair
would quit the air and go
bandy­legged upon the ground,
a com­mon crow?

Kay Ryan, 1994

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First among places
sus­cep­ti­ble to tres­pass
are mirage oases

whose grad­u­ated pools
and shaded grasses, palms
and speck­led fishes give
before the light­est pres­sure
and are wrecked.

For they live
only in the king­dom
of sus­pended wishes,
thrive only at our plea­sure
checked.

Kay Ryan, 1997

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