Kit Kennedy has published in Blood Orange Review, Bombay Gin,
FRiGG, La Fenetre, Mannequin Envy, Merge, Noon, the Journal of
the Short Poem
, The Poetry Super Highway, Runes, Saranac Review,
Snow Monkey, Van Gogh's Ear, and forthcoming from 5_Trope and
Up the Staircase. She hosts the Gallery Cafe reading series in
San Francisco.


I strain to look through the young man's eye-
glasses who sits in front of me on the MUNI.
Stylish, small oval lenses with frames a hue
for which nature has not named a color.

I angle to see what he sees, perhaps
glimpse the tower—a ship's mast—
landlocked, steadfastly on the right
or witness new coordinates, a passage
of time.

A pause. I see disembodied red, bloom
of a bottle brush with a sliver of the woman
in front of him. I would not have paired these.
At ease, she looks as if no one is studying her.
Attractive, in my opinion. He's reading
unaware his borders have been entered.

If we traded specs—all of us—and those without
were given, would, what we witness become blunt
or sharp? Excite? Would we carry these pocketfuls of stone?

Drinking the First Cup of Coffee at Schiphol Airport in a Decade

From here, the daily upends.
Travel is a shelf of books
in a stranger's room written
in a language your tongue
navigates with care.

Unencumbered, you rely
on gesture, relish the simple,
don't pick up the beveled edge
of local prejudice. A state of Spring.
The leaves are winking

and tomorrow and tomorrow
one unstoppable cloudy day
which you thought you left behind
but here do not damn. To do so
would be like cursing snow in Sweden.

The Muse Doesn't Speak a Language You Understand

Who will next ring the bell
expecting supper? So taking up
the knife to the unsuspecting

tomato, what do you know
looking at the back of your hand
as if it were a system of tributaries

moving away and into the larger
where there is rest or drowning
or both.

Now, turn your hand to the vulnerable
where sun rarely travels those lines
of transport—life, work, love.

Would you say what you are hearing—
faintly—is someone calling
or a distant lament, perhaps owl or dove.

Ten Minutes North of Mile Marker 38

Geologists on edge from shifts minute
and seismic. Rapacious gaps in earth tolerate
lupine, monkey bush, and wild radish
knowing these temporal anchors
are no sutures. Bless those geologists
hard at work. Sure-footed, they push
the present into the future
having lived most vividly in the past.
And there, you watching, allow friends comfort
in their calculations of you—fortitude and time.
Be still. Don't worry the wound.

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