Nate Maxson




It’s a phone ringing in the other room when we’ve not had a landline for years, hello?

It’s the taste of cherries in winter, dark red (almost black) out of when we used to have growing 
seasons for such things

What really remains unspoken?

After all,

We know

These days

What presses against the walls on the other side of this young and nocturnally delicate 
scavenger dance

I can hear the rain chatter as thin as ambivalently steeped green tea poured from silver pots

When you awake to fading music (only when you notice, otherwise it’s so common as to 
disappear like a kind of subliminal hum or gentle tinnitus) and you make up the words to try 
and trap it like a firefly in a jar

I swallow the cherries, I spit out the spits/ I swallow the cherries, I spit out the pits: what 
matches rhythm with a Spanish pop song whose chorus says, “el corazon es un Gitano / the 

heart is a gypsy” well well well

Until the moon goes out . . .

What is that called?

That particular species of déjà vu, the muted swoon of wings in the desert, “the hour of fog / la 
hora de la niebla I don’t remember that one

But perhaps

This is a pupal stage

I wonder

If moths reemerge

Remembering only

One kind of light