The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Rob Spiegel
Reach for Your Nose
You're going to miss it here, how the blue
through gray clouds, how babies reach for
your nose, how they laugh and scare, how
many steps it takes to cross everything that's
gone. At night the blues awake—a saw of
sinking enterprise, a hole of comfort and
Animals stir in the corners, but you are done
with corners. The rich cool earth beneath your
feet, the girls who suck hickeys on your neck.
You can taste it as it leaves, the hay loft,
hands that know to touch, everything to touch,
warm waves when Lake Huron goes summer rough.
Ice cream is the way to locate Earth, sideways
from the moon—a vacuum that takes and takes.
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