The morning sun smears the clouds
away from the color white
for the first time
like every time.
Think about anything and it won’t
make sense at first or think
so much that dust becomes
a heart beating
through the trance of existence,
through the long stretch of life
toward a single touch.
Fragments of metaphor
litter the mind, waiting for the color
of light they’ll be held up against:
blue void of bliss
or red smudged the blur of a fire truck
in the early hours
of life, forgotten over time.
Because memories need no color,
they so easily shed themselves of it.
Adam Clay is the author of Stranger (Milkweed Editions, 2016), A Hotel Lobby at the Edge of the World (Milkweed Editions, 2012), and The Wash (Parlor Press, 2006). A fourth book is forthcoming from Milkweed Editions. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Ploughshares, Denver Quarterly, Georgia Review, Boston Review, Iowa Review, The Pinch, and elsewhere.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan