Poetry is sediment
      I wipe off the windshield
      The mindshield, a process
      Of such and such refrain
      An original instance
     Of many waiting
     The field of shifting
 

     Expenses reclaim the years
     Remainders of what is there
     A battle of listening
     Degree of fuming
     Autopsies the barometer
     In children’s voices, taut or piercing
     Moments, leers, discharge
     Against a flattened calculus of indication
     (I can tell by the feeling)
     Reminders to explain
     Insane parts of an entire flesh
     A map, a sword, a monkey.
 

     Moisture of talk, minimizes mimicry
     Mummy’s condensation, a repetitious scrawl
     Of transitions from previous notes
     Corresponding to functions
     Parts of a closed ambition
     The original instance of many

     Waiting
     I can tell by that
     Or
     “Keep your clothes on”
     Process of sifting
     The entire field
     A calculated function of
     Degree (debris)
     Without which I must
     Rattle a gourd filled with pieces of my own flesh
     Matrices that correspond
     Inverted sentiment

                        —Nick Piombino & Charles Bernstein

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