A Question and the Idea of a Question
For once in my life I am beginning to think
Like a man as if lost in the woods
But I can feel the rug slid back under my feet
And how many people live in this house
And how many people love a house
And how love of a house can best be seen
In dirt swept out the back door
In a grain of sand brought a thousand miles inland—
I could never guess just by looking at a map
Which valley could possibly cradle a town
I could never protest silence with silence
A question fed back to itself—
Delirious Hem
Fight attendant blue,
the color of memory
where I find myself
in an airport,
a metaphor
unraveling,
unraveled, a metaphor
for travel even
though I hold
no ability or
boarding pass
to slip through
security. I make
sense of the universe
by thinking it
to be a ghost
of myself,
the million
parts of me scattered
over an Ohio
landscape,
a farmer not even
looking up from his work.
On Silence
A longing for blaze— The field of noise
There was bread then
The smell of bread—
In the field of mute gods
The bowl, the trajectory of light, the light itself
All of them
And none—
Then a diner Nearing the twenty-third hour,
What you wish Or wished to hide
Inside the hull of a broken egg Safe for a short time
But the sound of a bottle—
No a brick—
Against a wall
Brings back what used to happen next—
A laugh meant for a museum
Sprung up—
A sky not meant to be.
Adam Clay is author of The Wash (Parlor Press, 2006). His poems appear or are forthcoming in Denver Quarterly, Barrow Street, Gulf Coast, A Public Space, Court Green, Quarterly West, Sycamore Review, New Orleans Review, Iowa Review, Cimarron Review, CutBank, LIT, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Kalamazoo, Michigan, where he is an Assistant Editor at New Issues Press and a Managing Editor at Third Coast. He also founded and co-edits Typo Magazine.
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