Adam Clay

 

 


[IN THE ENVELOPE OF SECRETS I CLOISTER]
 
In the envelope of secrets I cloister
sense away from madness.
 
A caged cough reveals nothing but damp air
and a chill unstirred.
 
             I sense a religion of water
stamped into the body of each believer.
 
This letter is to no one. This note left
in the kitchen is never to be read or seen.
The weather is to devour it. This letter
is only a reference to my remaining unhurt.
 




 
[TOO MANY WORDS. TOO MUCH WATER]
 
Too many words. Too much water
in the body.
 
             Awe in the darkness
of closed books.
 
                  Everlasting punctuation.
 
A dagger speaks of blood
and its persistent love for a body opened.
 
All this paperwork with the war near at hand.
 
Enchantment
            is a song
the body must remember how to sing.
 
 
 
 
[I KNOW NOT WHAT FATE HUNGERS FOR]
 
I know not what fate hungers for.
 
My static is not a song.
 
            My song is a courtesy
for the prairie as a sentence, the state
a paragraph of purpose buried inside itself.
 
Sprightly days I have no mood for.
 
Weep for the citizens we know. The unknown
are swept away to calculated specks of doubt.
 
Safely pronounced out of danger, this state
steers fate’s eternal façade, its river,
until so far removed, it resembles someplace else.