Triptych: Flight

Adam Strauss


Love comes from south of here,
Heresies of spume and froth,
Zone where identity always
Possesses tonal clemencies, cortexes as
They’re turned on by sex,
Sextons of the mind as it
Wanders mind’s Anatolia, two
Removes from anyplace one can
Actually land, and therefore
Neither honored nor dissed
But rather suspended, deliriously
Caught on the hem of some
Skirt about to rip, and reality
Lets itself right through, thoroughly
Baffling whoever happens to be it,
The italicized voice inside his daily
Bread: wheat broken into
Flour, wheat remade as flour,
Wheat flour baked and studded
With seeds, including seeds of
Wheat, but he longs for chestnut.


On the flight to someplace far outside his mind
He longs for bread but not butter
Unless it’s of exceptional quality.
History lands before he does;
He will walk onto the scene with a role
He has rehearsed for months by the very
Act of living, account book with
Ticket to Athens, and sits in its olive shade.

Up Unlike Alarm

The sun comes up like mascara, and thus
He sees deeper into this distance.
Distance itself fails to
See the point, rocks no human
Sensibility can negotiate than
By sheerest luck, luck so
Thin it’s amazing they
Didn’t fall through, punch themselves on
Through to the sweet of otherness,
Dolphin strong enough to negotiate
Whatever sea can bring, whatever salt and
Slam, lambent rip or sleek cordage—you see
The sea has become a boat, and we go, and in going
Enact departure upon departure, aperture for purge,
Purgatory for afterwards, when slowness sets its rail.