The passenger cars click south
on the mountain’s feet, serpent
the Hudson’s length like words
in a poem you love but won’t
ever show me. We watch
the leaves flare out again.
My mind dresses towns in flags
full of stars, slim-motored
vehicles, men I won’t meet. I
open: a linnet brushes the glass,
light attempts to enter the skull
or leave it. Soon, your body
will set out for dog-eared
maples, alpenglow.


Matthew Gellman is a recent graduate of Skidmore College in Saratoga Springs, NY, where he received an Academy of American Poets Prize and the Frances Steloff Poetry Prize. His work appears in Lambda Literary, Word Riot, Gravel, Lines + Stars, Eclectica, and Two Peach, among other publications. He lives in New York and is an MFA candidate at Columbia University.