dark tipped whether
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
wait outside the rosebush
in the bucolic
rustle of metaphor
Day is Not a Forest
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.
Adam 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.