Men carry a mattress retrievedfrom a dumpster past the floodedfoundations of an unfinishedhigh-rise, an old woman catchesa pigeon in the folds of her dressthe dead smile and rise from swimmingpools or stand at attentionon stamps. The landscape can't believeit's real—there is no groundbeneath it, like what mirrors do.Adam Day is the recipient of fellowships from the Poetry Society of America and Kentucky Arts Council, and a PEN Emerging Writers Award. His work has appeared in Boston Review, the Kenyon Review, American Poetry Review, AGNI, the Iowa Review, and others.
