Alive, a human
being breathes
in air and dirt, brings
with life a sense
of lifelessness, motion
might direct the aim
of a year, the days
calculated until
they calculate us.
To have built
anything should
be enough, but if
crumbling away
means something
more, then so be it,
and so believe it.
Each storm creates
a passageway
for burden. My
glass of water, invisible,
falls from the counter,
a nice place
for a narrative to intend.
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. He co-edits TYPO Magazine and lives in Kentucky.