A Hotel Lobby at the Edge of the World

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One of the best young American poets writing today, Adam Clay engages fully with the natural world, gracefully dredging up the mysteries embedded in modern life-paper dolls clipped from the morning news, the ringing ears of lightning-strike victims-and bringing 'the patient sadness that will outwait the memory of a spark' to life in precise swirls of language. Each poem shimmers with physical and metaphysical insight, and Clay's endless storms and seasons resonate with wisdom and music. This is a brilliant collection of poems.” -Alex Lemon "These poems are sentient and surprising as only living things can be, intimate and compelling precisely because they don't aim to please, but to exist. In his own words, reading this book is like 'centering yourself along unrecorded boundaries' that Clay has somehow managed to discern for us and translate into poems that are in turns clear and strange, and always warmly memorable.” -Bob Hicok "These poems hover in and out of dreams, follow the mind's wild wanderings, interrogate language, reveal the heart's ambitions, all the while remaining brilliantly anchored to the physicality of all things earthbound. This is a book that lives as much in the curious mind as it does in the undeniable weather of the real world, and Clay travels expertly between the two with a gentle, inspired grace.” -Ada Limón "Adam Clay locates the poetic realm at the very limit of what is known, a hotel teetering on the flat world's precipice, where every visitor is temporary. Not only does one hear Dickinson whisper, 'My Business is Circumference, ' Clay arrives also with a Whitmanesque capacity for affirmation, 'The lyrical quality of a weed.' His poems sing themselves through their own complications, searching for that beautiful order language has no part of, but only language can reveal. 'May I for a moment be nervous?' the poet asks. The answer in the poems themselves is their wondrous nerve.” -Dan Beachy-Quick "Immediately striking about the poems in Clay's second book is their lack of self-consciousness. . . This poet locates himself at the borders between nature and language, solitude and community, the physical and metaphysical where paradox and fragmentation are at once evaded and embraced.” -Publishers Weekly