Gabe Russo: Still Crashing

Late March in New Jersey

Wind still crashing leaves on houses.

This oak-cold smell of rooms,

a thin, battered musk of 4 generations

slowly pulling apart the wood.

Exploded veins stain World’s 

organs on a wall—glazed in lamplight—

saying, This, just below her skin. 

Your ‘Morris Town High’ hoodie wedged 

in the desk’s corner under a pocked 

dart board & some premed textbooks left open. 

The wind’s not itself here,

harassed by the shifting spring, 

reluctant to ease under any bud.

So it duets with hammered steps above me; 

each shouting at the other in a ceaseless 

construction,—mortised symphony, 

percussive warning; sounds even night beasts 

know to let alone. Their glowing eyes

turn away from the chain-link.

Their shadows, growing thru it.

The rapping on the screen 

isn’t your knuckle, this isn’t my room.

Winter, still sunken in a pillow.

Gabe Russo is a poet and filmmaker from Florida. His poems have appeared in Crack the Spine, Black Fox, Epigraph, Zoomoozophone, & Wilderness House, among others.