Verge

Nancy Flynn

In this beauty thatís still left
find a picnic table, a smooth

black stone. The beach is be-
dazzling, one more morning†

after the rest gets mired, paved
over, paid off, shot. Itís hard

to find the jewel, any levity,
light; everywhere is deafened

by sky-scraping, pixelated shouts
to be the loudest blared for, sought.

Yet Iíve come to expect
such glory:   †††††††† solitude,†

an unburdened breeze borne
witness to the boats skittering

through sunrise straits. Fleetingly
lost, hiding behind & inside clouds,

there is a volcano, there are peaks,
still snow. Call this jackpot, call this

undeserved right. How I can sit
for hours to stare at the signal

of shine on those cross-channel unfolding
hills. Where the sun drums fierce, casts

my pen as shade, the ferry trail a dis-
appearing wake. In this water of constant

curl then roll, each lap makes a shore,
coaxing the cobbles into merciless bits. †





 

Nancy Flynn

grew up on the Susquehanna River in northeastern Pennsylvania, spent many years on a downtown creek in Ithaca, New York, and now lives near the mighty Columbia in Portland, Oregon. She attended Oberlin College, Cornell University, and has an M.A. in English/Creative Writing from SUNY at Binghamton. Her writing has received an Oregon Literary Fellowship and the James Jones First Novel Fellowship. Her full-length poetry collection, Every Door Recklessly Ajar (Cayuga Lake Books) appeared in 2015; her long poem, Great Hunger, was published by Anchor & Plume Press in 2016. A complete list of her publications is at www.nancyflynn.com.

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