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
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.