It is not the wild glare
Of the world even that one dies in
                                                      -George Oppen

Somewhere in America it says you must die, you know too much.
                                                      -John Ashbery



goodbye old face
pour nous climate

brief changlings
you know waking
in compressed dark

the work felt inside
of suffering that will not
save existence

as if it were ours to share












cut up, divided
occupied the oppidan
stunning prison to happen—

clever work for one
of many loaded guns

the awe feeling gone
the purse of life pricked

go home, undone feeling you feel

for a discrete history
though nonesuch
as morning comes












my place autres et pareilles

then several things
power you down
miedo as such
the phrase stranged

as every nonthought
thought as a favor
as a kind of fever breaks

quieted down, curious
frowning weight a failure

no a fault
night falls to fall












we know often
there is the wanting
of words to show

hope’s conceit
the I go on just to go

cold wake us
sleep us then too

flaking wink

so briefly to recall
breaking snapping light

the grievous thing
the key a symbol

for a key there is
no more being bent
a trend in similar affliction

to know always
I’ll not have the things
I don’t have












the future cache

spreading I “like”—
like a flower

a valve I’ve known

in that I’ve not said
a basic chord

piped all day
though no fire sprang
nor empty ringing
reformed my socket












ghost of some

I mean “my little mine”
unto a novel will
therefore as one
to feel as one feels

notes of which unload

like more light or less
as my blood opens
burns a solemn thing
it was once”

an artless scab
banked hollow

a rich wall to tell

the poorest detail












with the ball I wait
I am patient too
for the new generation

occasional absence
of each brick
the beast dispatched

the rules of which
in similar songs
together drone on












postule of light
no room with me denied
with me is me
the doorspace of

so that I feel less alone
trois two un












breathe might should
everything be locked
in a room darkly
and never stop—

toward love love goes

and so reach for the old lights
my sincerity shamefully flickering

as the light the light on the clouds at night”












is what out
be mended all naked
and in so completely
be quiet morning
be out being to echo
who lives in this house
swollen fleur
sound out

then there you are

though as I wept
a gold weeping
I saw no gold












morning winter—
no morning is
a kind of fall
for dreaming

the trigger snapping
the target jerking

so there must be things
of the world or for it
that wave for ex. as it signs
itself anew on the shore












hunger rarely as none
so kindly feeds
kindly fleshes

there is something
I know and so prove it
mashing the blossom

reminds me of
an extra shingle
like you a grain of sand

as events are not flesh
so young a pain
to enter that nothing
shd a feeling stop you

smooth as the mind
of a child I fled
but like a city burning now












is against time”
the bright flower faded
the owners of faces
sunned over by our
same sun
for what if we escape
the self w out warning




Douglas Piccinnini (© 2013)