21 OCT 06
2 poems from The Wash by Adam Clay:
[Our Hands Sailing]
Our Hands sailing all day--the night, a blanket gone black,
The night never known until one is waist-deep in it.
It stains my eyes--the water looks bruised.
Of the faces seen drifting in the wake of our boat,
My Father's stare is the deepest.
This river does strange things to men.
My hands are not my own,
The blood runs purple
In my veins--no birds in sight--the Weather quite rough, all day,
We have made a bad Landing according to my ideas--
Dream of the Path from Essex
Four days with no birds, empty nests everywhere,
and I expect the void to stretch farther
than sound into the next year. The idea of a bird
will not come near either, but the sky falls nightly
around my voice and this song is mine no more.
. . .