Anthony Collichio


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.

Moving Toward

For sounds smelt
like broken
wrists, there cannot

wield a
burden deeper
than the need

and justify.


Appeal to
any, and none
are left

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).