Poems by Adam Day


A Kind of Silence


Kid on the corner
selling water beside

the news kiosk –
its interplay of ruin

and repair. His father
is elsewhere on his knees

eating weeds, body
the blue-green of frozen pond

in a Bruegel, and still asking
in his aloneness

how much of what’s not said
is what cannot be said, or perhaps

more importantly, what
the speaker is unwilling to say,

what they are withholding.


Stoplight Rain


Propane tanks
tossed in the yard,

neighbor went inside
dressed and came

out naked, the whole
horse of him

with nowhere
to put his wallet.

What do you need,
love, what kind

of enough
would be enough?


The Trust


Man on an oil
derrick in grave

clothes is a kingfisher
bowing in a pool

of broken light.
Still, the moon isn’t

all that beautiful

to a platform
offshore, like a bucket

lost down a well.


Adam Day is the author of Left-Handed Wolf (LSU Press, 2020), and of Model of a City in Civil War (Sarabande Books), and the recipient of a Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship for Badger, Apocrypha, and of a PEN America Literary Award.



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