Natalli Amato. Untitled.

Untitled

  I.
  
 Sackets Harbor, dead
 of midnight, August:
 Three kids at that junction 
 of not believing they are,
 in fact, kids, lay
 backs flat on the asphalt 
 of dead quiet Route Three
 in stunning star-silence. 
  
 II. 
  
 It could only have been half an hour
 before our skin was eaten by bugs
 or we wanted a beer from inside, 
 though in my mind when I go there
 (when I’m paying bills, writing a press release, 
 attending dinners I don’t want to eat)
 I believe I am returning to an eternity;
 as if eternity is broken up into different parts,
 states, counties, boroughs,
 and not the lone, true, indivisible nation that it is;
 as if the body on the floor of the subway station 
 belongs to a different forever.  
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