7/17/01 (Cont'd)*

Nick Piombino


Always and again, feeling
your way into things. They
linger, they tango, they
thank you, they disregard,
they understand. What does
it look like? Like
you don't know your
own size, the feel of
things? You have to
get the measure of
the pleasure. Feet
on the ground, head
in the air.
Who said that?
What is the sound of
"Mayday, mayday, may
day." So they say. Does
what helps, sound good?
Action at a distance
in time. At all events.
At all events captured
some. Traces afterwards
Sounds like what? "Might
have been the water" is
what Toni said.

Estimates, roughing out
the design captures some.
Listening to something not said
yet is an echo from
somewhere else.
I still can't remember the
name of the disguise, its
title. Secrets suffice. I can
(can't) explain it.
Officially, anyway. There are
exams to take, I can tell
you that much. Monotonous
study, tedious accumulation
of details. A map. Surrounding
all the dishonesty, expressing
the fakes. Someone had to
be disturbed or confused. Loitering
between the sun and the
Shadows.Making believe,
imagining, pretending. "He's
pretentious," that
one. "Anybody can do that."


*This poem originally appeared on fait accompli. It has been reprinted with the permission of its author.


Copyright 2003 Nick Piombino