Anthony Santulli

   Exiting Baltimore at 6 AM, sun low-slung in the sky.

Mountain mists roll over pastoral groves,

   the silhouette of does, dairy cows

        graze between light pillars. 34,000 watt cables

              hang above I-83 like music staffs while

            steel nets hold back boulders from avalanching

              onto the highway.    Turn those ahh-choos

        Not everyone is living in the 21st century. You say

                telephone poles are crucifixes but really

      they’re just stick figures. Do you see

the bird in this poem? She’s nesting
    in the commas.

       Language is a virtual reality helmet
    that skims, parses, and bookmarks.
               Only a CAT scan can reveal
                    storm clouds in the brain.

The engine makes birthing noises. Try not to
   take the exit for Zion’s View, where
even the slush pile has a slush pile.

   Poetry cannot rehabilitate the shameless philosophy
      of the West.

   What do horses and beer have in common?
This is not a joke. John Wayne now wears
                a hoop earring at a Chinese buffet.

    Crossing the Susquehanna the fog is a sugar glaze.
    Traffic arrows point me in opposite directions, signaling
              the same thing. Somewhere,

unseen hands smear raccoon guts on asphalt, plunge
          road signs for last year’s elections in the earth.

There is a pattern here: the roadkill and the litter, police
sirens, the Confederate flag, the roadkill…

So about this poem you’re reading, there’s
something I need to confess: you should have stopped
    at the word “pastoral”.