Connor Pittfield

Palmed Treasure

Incomplete worksheet on the desk; walls oozing interest. Boredom. Magic in the phone; characters bleeding desperation. Longing. Anticipation; vibration. Elation. Familiar stairs different; door weightless. Impatience. Dark face beaming; a palmed treasure. Triumph.

Plastic separates, flower emerges, bowl becomes whole.
Flint is struck, fluid is released, fire is created.
Cloud forms, lungs collect, dopamine floods.

Incomplete worksheet on the desk.

Self Portrait As A (Tall) Tree

Look up to me, admire my size
Touch my sides, feel my marrow’s strength.
Examine my branches, envy their length
Follow my roots, find my pulse.

My limbs flex in the sky, I radiate power.
I see everything down there and everywhere, from up here.


Size is my demise. I cannot hide. I am found. 
My height deserts me. I am dismantled
and destroyed. I become useful,
but I am weak. I am used and
discarded. I am the weakest
in the dumpster. The
napkins and tissues.
Crushed under

Connor Pittfield is a first-year student in the Questrom School of Business at Boston University. He is new to writing poetry. In his free time he enjoys attending poetry readings and documenting his experiences in one-page “from the field” reports.