The Little Review (littlereview) wrote,
The Little Review

Poem for Thursday and National Zoo Invertebrates

Our Daily Becoming
By Adam Clay

Like animals moving daily
through the same open field,
it should be easier to distinguish
light from dark, fabrications

from memory, rain on a sliver
of grass from dew appearing
overnight. In these moments
of desperation, a sentence

serves as a halo, the moon
hidden so the stars eclipse
our daily becoming. You think
it should be easier to define

one’s path, but with the clouds
gathering around our feet,
there’s no sense in retracing
where we’ve been or where

your tired body will carry you.
Eventually the birds become
confused and inevitable. Even our
infinite knowledge of the forecast

might make us more vulnerable
than we would be in drawn-out
ignorance. To the sun
all weeds eventually rise up.


Yet again, there is a winter weather advisory on my phone. DO NOT WANT. Really I have no business complaining, since this storm is supposed to dump most of its snow on the South and only give us a couple more inches, which doesn't come close to what New England has suffered. But I haven't seen grass in ages, I'm worried about what the bunnies and deer are finding to eat, and I've had enough of shoveling and slipping and fighting to drive, not to mention wearing wet socks.

I spent too much of Wednesday on a stupid kitchen organization project (stupid because I can't reach my own kitchen cabinets, so it's all about figuring out where to put the things I need most). It was a nice day, above freezing, and I did get to see a bunny in the snow before The 100 (women still ruling the world) and The Americans (PHILIP, NO!). Here are some of the last photos I ever took at the National Zoo's invertebrate house before it closed forever with little warning:


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