Adam Fieled

from Apparition Poems


A patch of white light
appeared on my wall
late last night. It was
no shadow.
                  I thought
it might be a cross, I
thought it might be a
sign, but by the time
I turned my head, it
was gone.
                I thought


I want to last—
to be the last
of the last of
the last to be

taken by time,
but the thing
about time is
that it wants,

what it wants
is us, all of us
wane quickly
for all time’s

ways, sans “I,”
what I wants—


Naturalized: like,
I hit 18th and saw
Brigitte Bardot on
pumps, nails red—

she stuck them in
my arm, naturally—


There comes a time
history’s viability in
impressing us goes

out our mind’s eye,
we are ghosts then,
we join the “rest of,”

until someone’s lips
hips us to secrets, in
case we forgot, that

nothing ever happed,
nothing ever got writ.


I said, “I can’t
even remember
the last time I
was excited, how
can I associate
             She pulled
out a gun, a tube
of oil, and an air
             and it was
a spontaneous
felt, in which we
reaped together—


bright eyes in
parents dead
of a car crash,
I kissed her so
long I felt as if
I would crash,
South Street
loud around
us, lips soft—