adam, made of silt

adam, made of silt
-by Knight Quinn
photograph by Adam Pomozov
“depression drowning”
copyright 2015

she(‘ll speak a delic)ate gravel

into your
hardened ear
on the day you sling in the towel:
on the day
you(r dick) declare(s)
war on her lips.

behind those lips
you(‘ll find)
cement words that’ve been churning since
your lacquered words made
your bed seem appealing, made
your bed seem a safer place
than her own suspended high
above a doorman and his spirit
and high
above the street and its sp(ir)it,
with its deeper,
cognac-colored steam
tunnels lit by lamps burning
dimly of an angel(‘s fire)s

but then again,
you’re You
she’s She
now there’s a grave
in the graveled dirt
just as pale and shallow as Lake Eerie (pre)tends to be
until the silted bottom suddenly drops out
when you are far from shore,
when you forget how to swim in a Lake,
when you find yourself wishing for an
ocean for no other reason than the salt,

would rather drown with
salt in your throat and salt in your lungs
than the sickly silt of a lake-floor that drops out
when you are far from shore,
when a serpent breathes the water,
when your child finds murder.


Published in
Return to the Gathering Place of the Waters
by Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2017


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