old cloud, sitting between the sun and I
you can’t eat the idea of everything
and blur facts of shape and think
to see-saw in this soft focus, this “sentimental” stare.
light snow falls on the highway / salt stains the highway—
a hint of fact like mite bites on the back of your neck
see the grass, see the leaves, see what
flawed eye-orb, you haven’t seen carefully.
MEAN OLD WORLD
the bell yellow sound of how
“we” “can” “build” “something” “functional”—
yes, as one speaks like a gravestone
yes, the flesh—ya, the container now in muted tones
slips into a coffin to receive grief’s
slimming black ether
“lucky” so and so—so near a graspable thought—
to lean into “something” so “completely” “functional”
as absence—to tow the times of each coming crisis
“’lucky’” to have “something” as knifelike as sadness
“something” left to “be with”
in a house cut in twin delusions
Douglas Piccinnini is the author of a book of poems, Blood Oboe (Omnidawn, 2015) and of Story Book: a novella (The Cultural Society, 2015). His work has most recently appeared or is forthcoming with Boog City, Black Sun Lit, Denver Quarterly, Elderly, Fence, Lana Turner, Nat. Brut, Posit, Prelude, Seattle Review, Tupelo Quarterly, Verse and The Volta.