Bare

Logarithmic perfection

of calves becoming ankles:

the body

is smooth like numbers: the mind,

our hollow home,

is burning, burning, burning…

I was there, I tell them,

and did nothing:

the body, 

in its limitless desire

for plush things,

breathes life into plastic.

With this knife I deem to cut

only more perfect shapes:

the body

is last year’s tetrahedrons:

an old man

in love with rainwater.

I did nothing, I tell them,

and turn away:

the body,

in its orbit like Pluto,

does not whisper:

only hums eternal.

Manic softness of sunrise:

how can something so sick live?

The body

seeks hope in wet sand:

it finds only horseshoe crabs

seeking the same.

I turn away, say nothing,

stone my eyes:

the body,

ripped open by ghosts of poachers,

sells the evening bone:

it makes those poachers whole.

About the Author

Vincent Sergiacomi is a junior English major at Arcadia University. Most of what he writes is poetry, his influences including Pablo Neruda and Larry Eigner. When not writing, he enjoys taking long walks and learning new things.