Adam Stutz

It is when smashed


become misgivings

in the order of day,

           suffering the faults

of timing—

           rules must be


slipped/ broken open/

laid down &

left to be stretched

under the wheel of a car.


It starts as an accident

           drying into another


           where all the noise

of witnessing usually

bubbles like a simmering liquid

threatening one’s



Shuffling the anthems—

marching in long

           halls whose shoulders

stoop like mine—

           the quiet creeps back

in as a small collapse

w/ a well placed



Two lights opposed,

           dissolving & becoming

a scowl/grind/split—

something glass-broken—

to make the order right &

to create an opening

           for invective.


Snapping a

           quiet imbalance

into a bluntness,

colored w/ a riddled worry—

           It just spills over &

           then it’s just.