At the River
Driving
Gorgeous
Palm
Tanned Old Man

At the River

In my city—I walk
through the woods—

and lean against an old
elm tree—and watch

the foggy dusk—and watch
the lights across the river—

and the birds—they are in
their own world—which nobody

but me notices right now—
someone burns wood

in a stove to keep off
the last of the winter—

I am careful walking
down the iced paths

to the river—because men
sometimes fall in—

as I lean back against
the solid elm tree—

I think of Jesus with his
spine—the way he hung

from that tree and came
to love how he was held

by the embrace of that tree—
from which he hung—

a man could fall in—
if not careful near the river—

the birds—what friends—we ignore
the way the birds watch

from above—how we walk
and turn down the path—

we amuse them—we are below—
as they fly to the tree above—

Driving

I pick you up to go
for a drive

You never say "no"—
usually we orbit

Lake Harriet—the Sun
on your face

Once you took me
downtown on a bus

That was years ago
I wore short pants

I wanted to be older—
you wanted that too

Now I buy you a glazed
chocolate-covered doughnut

We drive toward the Sun
along Minnehaha Parkway—

You are happy with the doughnut—
I'm so happy for you too—

Gorgeous

Gorgeous the Sun
and the clouds
and the blowing air

Gorgeous the pine tree
the pink wall
the faded chair

Gorgeous my bare knee
my old shoes
my blue ink

Gorgeous and too much—
the breath—the hot
dog—the sharp mustard

You, my dear, are most
gorgeous—your hazel
eyes—your brow—

As you read
the paper—what news—
reflecting on your face—

Palm

The green sea the blue
sky the glamorous royal
palm with a cluster
of coconuts the intentions
I've always had the
suspicion that nothing
is a matter of intention
the accident of arrival
at this age or any age
being basically me all
these years the sand
that has been and is being
created by the pull
of the Moon from quartz
boulders marble cities
just look at the white
sand spreading everywhere
as evidence of how long
time is—just a glimpse
we get—just a few snapshots
to send to you—the swaying
of the royal palm tree—

Tanned Old Man

In a Speedo—collapsing
slowly upon himself
in the sand—he resembles
Cormac McCarthy but I doubt
it's him—now he looks
more like Burt Reynolds
in that centerfold if Burt
Reynolds did that now
all these old people
not that I'm not there
more or less—old women
with pierced navels—God
is good—and has retired
to some place with Sun
where he can do—little harm—

The above poems are from Tim Nolan's new book, And Then, forthcoming in October 2011, and published by New Rivers Press. His book The Sound of it is available through Amazon.

Tim is interviewed in this edition of Sleet.

You can visit Tim's website at timnolanpoet.wordpress.com.