FLOOR  PLAN JOURNAL

 

                                                    Clay Elegy

 

 

The wall is broken.

A sound not unlike a nail

being driven into solid rock.

A sound like an oblique

 

water dialect boring a hole

through a glass window. I dreamt

of you last night: tumbling

down a green hillside in Mantua,

 

Ohio, your baseball glove’s webbing

torn, pants in flames, the oily

luster of your face cascades

a dark shadow over our grass,

 

which we melt into. I cling to it.

I cling to your garnet eyes.

This broken man-made landscape.

I forget the areas I used to go

 

for most. Now it is anything:

another empty horizon. A clumped

together effigy, muddied by the rain,

knocked over from the wind.