Table of Contents



Adam Clay

We are not thinking of the president
            tonight. Even now, there is a maze carved in the corn

                        not far from here.
The leaves pile up and we wait on the porch, sipping something,

                        waiting for the leaves
            to self-combust and enter the air, the atmosphere, our lungs.

It’s easy to mistake
            dust for smoke. It’s easy to think of William Blake while the sun

burns a hole in our eyes. There is a certain labor I see in the sun,
            a type of hard work someone once

                        warned me against, as if hard work and sweat
could wipe one from the face of the earth. Thinking of salted pork and a bridge

            fit for one car at a time. A detailed aftermath. An aftermath
                        usually is. Memory like Blake seems to change.

When I think of nature, nature thinks back. Or nature blinks back. The man with a baby
            stroller filled with aluminum cans is now coming back up the street

                        with a wheelbarrow. If that is what he had been saving for,
I wish I had often carried a bag of cans out to him. I once thought

            that expecting the worst was the best I could do.






"In Light of Recent Developments" was written last year after reading about a corn maze in Michigan meant to resemble the likeness of Gerald Ford. Another common Michigan sight, the man with the baby stroller filled with cans, helped me find the ending to the poem. I never made it to the maze, though.