Untitled (The Mole Rat)
Maybe there’s a poem for the cool of the bus
in my hair,
like the whole network
of hidden vein lines
in clear eyes, or the air
rattling under the stop-caller’s
white words. In this poem,
when a container empties
engorges it, fills out
its deep corners again,
a deep network
of trusting, tensile thin.
I am a container,
and even sweat-gleaming in the shit-lined tube tunneling
I’m filling with the cool,
with clear eyes.
The head swimming the best elements
of death, the light,
the marathon exhilaration finish.
The mole rat
tunneling in the black dirt
works towards brightness blind,
hands careening and ears blowing up
at every new threshold of depth.
John Nyman’s poetry has appeared in Misunderstandings Magazine, Steel Bananas, and The Antigonish Review’s Poet Grow Op. He is a graduate of the undergraduate program in creative writing and English at York University, and has performed at several live reading series in Toronto.