Under the rain the Geiger counter went a-clicking that day in Edinburgh.
On the same latitude as Moscow and storm clouds advanced like Jackboots.
Lacquered and angry the television spun with supercilious gossip of a failed
                    Atomic Age.
In the heirless East a building was smothered in concrete and since then
                    nothing’s been the same.
Even the most calculated run into walls of festooned brick or chain or glass.
I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve struck my head on this hatch.
Not worth the Naugahyde horse they rode in on, nor the alabaster mollusk
                    used as a coffer.
An accomplice to the illness of a caved-in quarry this retention of
                    radioactive elements.
The wasp and bee of Linlithgow are said to have no lungs for this reason.
Coyotes swarm these hills at night in great flurries of electric lantern-light.
They have moved on in due time dear Constance so shall we.
Without trees rain foreclosed its grace upon us and I grinned in thirst
                    upon the sun’s one-thousandth day.


Adam Davis has work appearing and forthcoming in The Paris Review, Logos, Mosaic, Western Humanities Review, and an anthology of ekphrastic verse, The Eye of the Beholder: A Poet’s Gallery.

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