All bodies leave suddenly, and then
not at all. Once extinguished, it will
be like the arrival of a storm
somehow missed by meteorologists.
This plastic bouquet of transparency, how
his crewcut head fits so nicely on her
torso in the glass. Us vessels of desire
only in the cornfield are home. Because husks
are wise to retain shape as memory, it is
easy to escape sunlight day after day.
I love you, I love you, I love you, what’s
your name? Viscous riff. Anemone.
Catherine carries the wheel to the
bank. What else is new? Claustrophobic
mosaics, tile on tile, until the wall runs
out of will, aware of its cruel opacity.
Station to Station
if I proved that distance has been conquered
by the dead, would you flee or
flock to me? there are secrets you don’t know
you've revealed with your song
show me how I can learn to learn
the way you grip each constellation
as though they were free
from the guilt of words
nothing left to see is nothing to grieve
for now we can roam as we please
our landfills and oil spills of loss
and how strange the frame of sky
night draped over the airplane’s wing
still as a nativity
knocked out by wine in a plastic cup
and passengers around
do their best to ignore the particles
within my chest colliding
well beyond the speed of light
Anthony Santulli (@anthonysantulli) is a New Jersey born writer with a B.A. in Creative Writing and Italian from Susquehanna University. His recent work has appeared in The Ilanot Review, bioStories, Bartleby Snopes, Literary Orphans, and decomP. Informed by contemporary art and music, his poems explore the relationship between language, time, and space. He also hopes you’re drinking enough water.