Poetry: Adam Fagin

Lush Minimalisms


















                        of vision



                                    wet grass




                                    I look


                                    as rain

            aims for

                                    its image


dark tipped whether

                        flowering gust

crossing parenthetical twilight

                        a minimal sky listens

with collapsed reverence

                        it listens in configurations

of silence interior to trope

                        clover couplet figure thought

My Second Dream of Wildness

thorny discourse

centripetal shade–

wait outside the rosebush

in the bucolic

rustle of metaphor

Day is Not a Forest

I walk to the park at dusk. What about

my thoughts that enter it when I’m gone?

Between literary meadow and urban sprawl,

I start with a lush minimalism. Waking up

late spring, I imagine dappled branches on

bedroom wall as advertisement for the soul.

I imagine my soul as passing planetary lust.

Absorbing love or boredom, personal or public

loss, every step fills my head with mourning

doves, dissolving codes of memory and

time—other selves in anti-narrative,

perambulatory and lost. Is their presence

apparition or apprehension? What appears

or as it does? In caesura’s interminable

shadow, a ground both figurative and literal,

the future comes and goes with regular frequency.

image1Adam Fagin’s recent chapbook is THE SKY IS A HOWLING WILDERNESS BUT IT CAN’T HOWL WITH HEAVEN (Called Back Books 2016). His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in New American Writing, Colorado Review, Boston Review, The Seattle Review, Volt, Fence, and many other journals. He is working on a book of lyric essays about family, home, the intersection of personal and public history, and Cotopaxi, an abandoned 19th-century Jewish agricultural colony.