by Gus Varallo

in the dregs of sunset through my closed blinds,
the dim light sneaking between folds, the glimmering dust

because everything is shedding

like the windshields in our driveways, blanketed
by pollen, like the sea foam rolling

against barrier islands, like chunks
of ripped tackle washed away

with the sand, like another flood,
another hurricane, like the flying

asphalt pebbles on I-95 and smokestacking
factories flanking our bridges, the evening

fog blocking the harbor, our opal water,
our sinking moon. Until daybreak, of course,

when the dust of our history floats by our faces
in dim clouds, unclenchable,

twirling with our breath.

Gus Varallo is a writer and an undergraduate student at the University of South Carolina studying English and Spanish. He writes both poetry and prose, and his work has been published in Rattle’s Young Poets Anthology and Garnet and Black magazine. He is currently working on a collection of personal essays about Charleston, city design, and the video games he spent way too much time playing.