Five Poems


Adam Day





Blurred Boundaries



Water bottles

haywire dance


rubber bullet song.

Hip on hip,


territory arrangement.

Nurse hands slipping


through the dark.

Roped rain


light, and masks

like a cupboard


holding a lost









Judges – spit

no polish; wigs


out of order –

clouds hanging


like wool

on barbed wire.


History rush

loosens jaws


white system

reality rewritten


in cities that are

also history.





The Present Fire



Men stuck home;

house secrets


split mother’s face

stitched up. Blind


dunes abandoned

camp. Late light


and lost glasses.

Outside, trees


walking, like human

walking. Her mind


calculating how to steal

life as hers has been stolen.





Sky Closing



Chunk blown out

the levy, making


several centuries

simultaneously present


where bones

undrown themselves


and live oaks

creak toward spring.





Resistance and Play



On the corner

selling water;


fluctuating prices .

Nonsite. Blurred


boundaries attuned

to what it might mean


to live rubble.



like pulling a drop

from the river.









Adam Day is the author of Left-Handed Wolf (LSU Press, 2020) and Model of a City in Civil War (Sarabande Books) and is the recipient of a Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship for Badger, Apocrypha, and of a PEN Award.  He is the editor of the forthcoming anthology, Divine Orphans of the Poetic Project, from 1913 Press.  His work has appeared in the APR, Boston Review, e·ratio 27, Volt, Kenyon Review, Iowa Review, and elsewhere.  He is the publisher of Action, Spectacle



 ē·                                                        <  ē·  >