Adam Clay

POEM WRITTEN AT TWENTY NINE THOUSAND FEET
I’M PRETTY SURE THAT’S A HURDLE IN THE DISTANCE

POEM WRITTEN AT TWENTY NINE THOUSAND FEET

When you laugh your knees

shake and I can feel like

a joke unfolding

then crashing into

itself, a wave of noise

but silent from the inside

view. I wish you

had been there with us

watching the mountains

and drinking beer in

October. Lucky for us,

the mountains won’t

go anywhere, but we will

or we did, and we’ll go

back to the mountains

and drink beer on the hood

of Brandon’s car again

and I will shoot an arrow

straight up into the sky,

tear a hole in it,

and wait for the arrow

to make the type of sound

an arrow shot

into the sky should.

I’M PRETTY SURE THAT’S A HURDLE IN THE DISTANCE

I could have run from repetition

forever. Dearest sun, your thick light

drags me down like a river current,

a big river, a small current. Anything

I say could start with repetition

and end with light. A shortcut to save

breath. Breathing. Light. Newsprint-

smudged forehead. Four of a kind.

Where the hills rise up people

got really tired and settled. This is

easy to understand. A head-full

of vowels in a Consonant World.

I’m fairly sure you could finish

my sentences and make them better

than they were supposed to be.

What else did you think

a question was designed for?