Poems by Tim Suermondt

ARMIES

I finished the book,
put it on the nightstand,
turned off the lamp and went to sleep.

A ferocious mountain of dust
was coming ever closer, the outline
of sinister vehicles taking the lead.

I woke, turned on the lamp,
picked up the book, checking again
for the balm at the end:

“And the army retreated in the same dust
they had kicked up when they arrived.”
I felt relieved, for all of us.

EARLY AUTUMN WITHOUT THE OLYMPICS

Mums bloom in someone’s garden
and I sit in a room guarded by Japan screens.
I’m lost and found at the same time—
who understands any of this?
I write a line with mums in it, thread it nicely
to the next line and the next, a literary relay,
a handoff I hope doesn’t falter in the last leg.
The sun in and out as if playing a game
with the screens and through a slit I commend
the calmness of the trees refusing to be provoked.