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About this poet

Born and raised in New York City, Jonathan Thirkield graduated from Wesleyan University and the University of Iowa's Writers' Workshop where he was a Truman Capote Fellow.

In 2008, his collection The Waker's Corridor was selected by Linda Bierds for the Walt Whitman Award, presented by the Academy of American Poets.

He lives in New York.

Abend (10:101)

Jonathan Thirkield

In Köln, each triangle picks at the dome; spines work their way, out of the scaffolds and stainless girders, into spires.

A brown even sky with light fixtures in the dents; her mouth overlaid by a few beads of frost on the train window in transit.

The station's metal wrists. Traced white with snow. A ministry of interstice. Of atoms tensed inside a crystal lattice.

The fiberglass shudders. She holds down his knee to steady them. Pins the other against the side rail. You were sleeping.

Are we there?

We pass as two shapes may assume a form of love. If just in passing. In the seats across a slender man bends over a book placed

At his knees. His daughter rests a flashlight on his shoulder, her ear pressed firmly to his jaw. Should he be whispering?

A tree. Lit momentarily in the passing. Train lights. Quickly it grows. Ductile. And cannot hold to its shape. What sound

Now grows with you? I am not standing. In a steel extension of when snow. Was not heavy before metal. But light on one spoon.

The overlook passes. The cathedral arrows. From the small lungs inside her. A coughing; it crowns. To the rounded south.

First published in Colorado Review. Copyright © 2008 by Jonathan Thirkield. From The Waker's Corridor (Louisiana State University Press, 2009). Used by permission of the author.

Jonathan Thirkield

Jonathan Thirkield

Born and raised in New York City, Jonathan Thirkield's first collection of poetry The Waker's Corridor was selected for the Walt Whitman Award

by this poet

after Peche

In sheet metal or silver shallows
filled with these:
hollow, floating
where some assumed votives
would be lit. Or

Do you see the time of day? With still
some red to
flush the waders,
scatter against a few
boats, and fire

Distantly, first. When we see the flare,
we listen.

Boat toy boat law boat low in Melodie's arms. She blows green water ripples, she squeezes humming blots from bows, her lungs. She goes

No. No honey. She bolts high birds filled with fancy over her pale Melodie. Now darling leave, let it set. Let it boat now. Mother links

Me, Melodie lapsed on a string.