Christopher Salerno


A lake with your first name.
Along a hollowed-out hill.
You’ll take it as a sign.
Into the anatomy of bells.
Walk it into a ring of stones.
Drag it through a South
Jersey town whose stark marquees
predict a neutral-sounding
eternity. Always “what-ifs”
suffer as technology lags. For instance
the mouth has a weather—
no one notices the red
phone inside it. Colors and things halved
we want to have sex with.
Children only see an obelisk
flowering into the stars. The children
bouncing on a bundle of moss.
Tense until the day they can smoke.
The day we say anything will do.
Kisses and information.
Try lipstick and the lake will confess.
Like an August with laws.

© 2005 Electronic Poetry Review