Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Adam Clay

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The Self Forgives Little of Itself


By
May 15, 2015
The days swell with our remaining.
Yes, the leaves allow the wind to contain
the branch of a tree and the skyline
to become its own type of lineation,
the idea of beauty lost and then found along
the swirling liquid in the trashcans
left in the alley.
Watching the train cut across the prairie,
geese flying the wrong way
for the season,
it’s as if the knuckle of tomorrow
has arrived today
with the weight of snow and wind,
gardens cut open to sky
and the sky alive with the orange hue
of the sun replaced
by a false sense of itself,
a waste of time left clear
and open in this wash of sightline.

 
 Adam Clay at the Academy of American Poets

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