you’ve been coming to new york for years now and you never get here. you tread water, you skip back like a record; your roots are growing into the silt of the alpine. i trade places with the self of every next day. the future is a discrete location and there is a pileup on the freeway that leads to its exit. i watch from the side of the road. when i have roots, they are the blur that recedes in a backseat window. i sit in the park and watch the sun set with a girl in an edwardian nightgown – it passes its spear and shield to the streetlamps, fat eggs in iron nests, and the vanguard shadows arch across the streets. you are flat on my screen. the small text on the subway ad says to grab sky by both ends & shake.
Montana Azzolini is an American poet and student. Originally from Hoboken, New Jersey, she can now be found either at Whitman College or somewhere uncontactable in the Central Rockies attempting to commune with the mountains. She is up to no good.