Men carry a mattress retrievedfrom a dumpster past the floodedfoundations of an unfinishedhigh-rise, an old woman catchesa pigeon in the folds of her dressthe dead smile and rise from swimmingpools or stand at attentionon stamps. The landscape can’t believeit’s real — there is no groundbeneath it, like what mirrors do.Adam Day is the recipient of fellowships from the Poetry Society of America and Kentucky Arts Council, and a PEN Emerging Writers Award. His work has appeared in Boston Review, the Kenyon Review, American Poetry Review, AGNI, the Iowa Review, and others.