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Sonnet


I am trying to find a line of tenderness
to walk tonight. But wishing for something—
a deer, a possum, a squirrel, anything—
to make its way across the boulevard
at this moment would suit me fine. Do we wish
for words and then they come to us? Do we wish
for words and say the opposite of what we mean?
Syntax has never eaten from my hand. One night,
I gnawed a bone long after the wine was gone,
and you picked the cork down to nothing.
You drove, reached to shift gears,
remembered the car was an automatic.
I would not and will not touch you
before we find a word to settle between us.


Adam Clay

A Hotel Lobby at the Edge of the World
Milkweed Editions


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