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
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
To collapse under mass. To suffocate while on the quest to sift
through it all for the grail that would render time and space
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.
What used to be called firm ground defeats the purpose of
tossed grounds. Everything keeled over from the long haul of
Gian Lombardo’s recent book of prose poems is Bricked Bats. Lately, he also translated Maurice de Guérin’s The Centaur & The Bacchante. More often than not, he’s looking at Long Island Sound.