[BENT TOWARDS THE LIGHT, THE MISERABLE WATER]

Bent towards the light, the miserable water
shines tired and bored.

It was still raining this morning when I awoke.

An extinct bird in my pocket,
                             this river-mile much like
any other.

Historically, my visions lean toward the tactile,

but these thoughts
of water are like no other.

What cloud is an innocent question. What music
raveled in earnest thunder.

To start a fire with words. To decide sleep
a necessary fault on the plain so still.

The wind is due East. This bend
reminds me of the land I wish to procure.
The trample I wish to forget.












[SPILLED ON THE FLOOR. WHAT IS]

Spilled on the floor. What is.

There isn't much need for a commanding tone.
Assuming.

I am assuming the content is adequate.
             Central Tennessee is a basin,

Wallace Stevens, a rainslicker
for fossils. Catch it in the right light.

What a glance towards tradition
can do for the soul.
                                          What a sneer towards
a worm in the mouth of a sparrow
means for my destiny.

Again, regrettably.

I am awake past my bedtime. Many miles covered today.

The truth of origin is the truth that sends me to seek parentheses.












[LIGHT IS THE ONLY FOOL I KNOW, A BLANKET OF FEATHERS]

Light is the only fool I know, a blanket of feathers
funneling out light. The pines, too.

Apparently the shower is going by in the north.

The sound of this planet spinning
stopped here for me, left me with only
sight to make my way.

Without thunder, the horizon resists melancholy.

A river is born as a desperate scar of weather.
Seeking our source, we both extend south.












Adam Clay has new poems in Denver Quarterly, Iowa Review, and CutBank. His chapbook, Canoe, is available on horse less press and his book, The Wash, is forthcoming from Parlor Press. He lives in Fayetteville, AR.






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