Gian Lombardo
Three Poems

Driving Towards One More  

Tiny Bend in the Road  

​

Fresh out of obsequies, there’s ample space to distinguish one 

comma from another in the rote discourse. 

 

Bothered by flying away, there’s a loneliness to loveliness that’s 

akin to squaring off in a dance and sweeping the cellist off their 

feet. 

​

If everything is accidental, nothing is intentional. Or is it: if 

nothing is permanent, everything is provisional? 

​

One more hell gathered into our handbasket.

 

 

 

Not Enough Talk About  

Redistributing Propensity 

​

To collapse under mass. To suffocate while on the quest to sift 

through it all for the grail that would render time and space 

superfluous. 

​

Is it not the great dark hole that hauled it all aboard. The catch 

ready for processing, and then market. 

​

Before it all rots because demand does not exist.

 

And no breath remains to sound the single word of supply.

 

 

 

Not Enough Shelves  

Laugh When Provoked 

​

Never sure how I stand. Roses. Others needed as mirrors.

They  fill in the details on the form. 

​

There was a witness to the drive-by. Roses. They left a

statement  in a codicile. Much contestation has been made. 

​

Pack thinking led to pack living. They all say the same thing.

 

Roses. 

​

What used to be called firm ground defeats the purpose of

tossed  grounds. Everything keeled over from the long haul of

swirling  gales. 

 

Blue.