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Gian Lombardo
Three Poems

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OK, I'm going to try to say somethingGian Lombardo
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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.

 

Gian Lombardo

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.