Of the things we’re distant to, the sun
isn’t the first thing that comes to mind.
No matter, some matter. Light forgives
inaction with such ease
that we could learn a little something
by sitting still and staring into it.
In most faces I see a caesura without even trying.
I keep missing buttons to the point
of not bothering anymore. The news is better
off, and the way we view the end of the world
is too compact and simple, it turns out.
to compartmentalize in a sudden sort of way
because this world is a place where a truck backfires
and a bullet casing rolls around in the street
like a lopsided marble headed somewhere.
Adam Clay is the author of A Hotel Lobby at the Edge of the World (Milkweed Editions, 2012) and The Wash (Parlor Press, 2006). A third book of poems, Stranger, is forthcoming from Milkweed Editions. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Boston Review, Ploughshares, Denver Quarterly, Iowa Review, New Orleans Review, and elsewhere. He co-edits TYPO Magazine and lives in Kentucky.