[To endure calamity’s split, I turn to each bottle]
Adam Clay

To endure calamity’s split, I turn to each bottle

of milk cold in the well and

speak to the shards of noise

under my pillow and the eggs below the bed.

 

The sky looms so large from this window, but the hill

cannot be seen from this vantage.

 

Crowding the sky, a half-breath

demanding to be unwritten and passed over.

 

Eggshells in the garden. For naught. I dream

of locusts. Swarming weather hesitates,

brings with it a new definition of sorrow.