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Portrait*


Nick Piombino

 

She feels satisfied.
For a moment
All of this is at her feet
And much can be learned.
For a moment
The actual day is forcing itself
Through her door.
And the dry noon.
And the eternal excisions.
If it was there
Isn't it true that eventually
I or she would hear this knocking
Which otherwise would be defined
On a Fortune-telling deck or cookie
As a barely hearable gentle noise?
Here, someone is turning.
Here, someone is lying awake.
Here, someone is burning.
It would be useless to express it.
The mystique of quality
Is the mystique of quantity
The buzzy asides
Prophetic absence
O.K. nurse-shells-oleander
The deer, cholera, arcane
The busy slides
Signal, bee, Gestaltist
Known since the Big War
Who controls the specifics.
They are the weather patrol
And the waltz crew
Oh, don't sputter...
Les Halles
Les Mots
Bittersweet reflections
Turbulance
Landing crew

 

*This poem originally appeared on fait accompli. It has been reprinted with the permission of its author.

 

Copyright 2003 Nick Piombino