My glass fell. It should have shattered
no. It did shatter. But it also
shrunk. And stretched
tearing at my skin but there is no pulse
emptying my heart just dry marrow
below the desert. Inundated,
my bones break through my skin. Ivory and red ivy. Twisted spine and filth in a dumpster.
What would they say? Help me breathe.
For sounds smelt
wrists, there cannot
than the need
any, and none
but never more
than just hindsight
could reach and
introduce the oak to
Anthony Collichio is a student and philosophizer of the nonsensical, currently in pursuit of medical certification. His poems have appeared on dining hall napkins and bathroom walls. Though a proud Rochesterian, he currently resides at Boston University’s Warren Towers (rumored to be designed by a famous architect of prisons).