top of page

Adam Jon Miller

the tattoo

    cannot tree

  across flesh

 

the Story

how Self

 

 sparrows-out

  after death. 

 

     a colony 

      of pharaoh ants 

 

           lost inside

               a sill 

 

                   of a window 

                      with no view.

 

                            to recompense,

                                you must

 

                                         ink-out & 

                                            cross the 

 

                                                  Holy River— 

                                                    unsubscribe 

   

                                                              from 

                                                               the flesh. 

 

                                                                      to heaven: is 

                                                                        to feather-out

 

                                                                            into the Great

                Hereafter,

 

                                                                                  where sits 

                                                                         a house

 

                                                     on a cliff 

                                   with a view

 

                     beyond All

description.

i dream in sharpie, i dream in ri-ˈsplen-dən (t)s

for a friendship box appears above our heads

like inner children, playing in puddles: summer haze.

 

because you can’t bottle this kind of magic. 

 

for a purple circle imagines itself across the floor, 

when we are sad, we autumn: leaves of crème.

 

because you can’t bottle this kind of magenta.

 

for everything we do as children becomes what we grow into 

as adults, what we do as adults becomes revelation, calls us back.

 

cheers to our childhood, to our late year bloom, to gorgeousness.

 

because you can’t bottle this kind of goldenrod.

 

for who we are, we become even more of, it's called expansion.

 

i loved it how chuang tzu was dead-on playful about things,  

he belly laughed: where can i find a man who has forgotten words?

 

because growth, beauty, majestic, selfhood: manifest: they all gem.

 

if you marry a 92-year-old billionaire, you are really swimming

with a child in a floating box of toys.

 

for there is a gate of color marked around our silly 

squiggling bodies, we crawl through: it’s called ri-ˈsplen-dÉ™n (t)s.

 

because everything we do as players culminates into more: 

bubbles, brandishes, brines, shiny as gold, bubblegum as silver. 

 

because you can’t bottle this kind of rainbow, this kind 

of wordless hammergod.

 

for when we love, we love, we make it; moreso, we make Luv.

Adam Jon Miller's poems were included in The Louisville Review, Yalobusha Review, Thimble Literary Magazine, The William & Mary Review, OxMag, and elsewhere. A selection of Adam's work has been translated into Chinese. Adam is a poetry reader at Thimble Literary Magazine. He authors the Substack newsletter WORDINGHOUSE. Visit him anytime at www.adamjonmiller.com and follow him @im.adam.miller.

 

© 2025 by Yin Literary

 

  • Instagram
pexels-maksgelatin-4596634.jpg
bottom of page