Ryan Teitman Poems

The days unfold
like maps. Fresh dirt
in the garden, black
as cake, grows warm.
...

I walk home through the city.
The stars wait behind the clouds
like an orchestra for a conductor
and windows yawn open
...

The songbird that escapes
from a burning house
will build its nest
in the shape of a cage.
...

A still night has its own cruel music:
the catch of bridge cables plucked
by stone-scented wind; the low, bent
hum of the Delaware, rippling like a singing saw.
...

Peel an orange, set
a candle in the rind-
let the smoke melt
the pith into an oil
...

Some mornings, the clouds
settle rooftop low,
holding us in place
like a specimen slide.
...