TWILIGHT


Thunderstorm fear you under
the bed for a long puke

and Mill on Floss. Solitary bird—
heavy sane, pudenda tucked—

venture forth into the cold world,
and the empty cage sings. Bus drivers

on strike beneath the swelling
orgasm of sunset. A blushing

geriatric gouges the mad cloud-line
with a crazy kite, singing

to a distant damsel, “Uranus,
Uranus! my sovereignty

for Uranus.” Into the light and thorns
of thunder, whip the sea, man,

into the days when you and yours
wore suits and bad teeth.


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Adam Day is the author of A Model of City in Civil War (Sarabande Books), and he is the recipient of a PSA Chapbook Fellowship for Badger, Apocrypha, and of a PEN Emerging Writers Award. His work has appeared in the Boston Review, Lana Turner, APR, Poetry London, AGNI, The Iowa Review, and elsewhere. He coordinates The Baltic Writing Residency in Sweden, Scotland, and Bernheim Arboretum & Research Forest.