Peter Gizzi





Notre Musique


                            par JLG

it’s amazing anyone survives... an index cannot be simplified... the dust stands up in time... moves with wind... wind off a book closing... our music... men marching... murder-making... movie marching... minor chords clang in this reel... meaning the people of the book... shot... counter-shot... tanks rock over hills and crush flora... jets rocket off the cruiser’s vast deck... all this formal collapse... forward-ho... war the constant... we the variant... sonic trespass of the mind... our music disturbs notes fingered on the keys’ slight sustain... soloing in air... yes... they all died very young...






Of the Air



She talked to me. Were lovely days. A superb summer. Had a right to it. My birds were wild birds. Were new. I tried to understand. Loveliest days. Speaking of a voice. To know it better. I understood. Not the report. Not what matters. Does this mean. House and midnight. The windows.



Speechlessness. Long stumbling earnestness. I have never been able. Will be different. The greater part. From now on. But I shall play. Perhaps not. To have been. Must have thought. Be able to tell. On a different theme. About a man a woman. A third about a thing.



April or little signs. Shall survive. I do not think. Will take place. I have had. What does ever. A little effort. Rushing things. I am less given. Still have my fits. Be on guard. Be sure crying. In a state. Spoil everything.



Atrocious life. Can I forgive. Am I content. Would be repaired. Then fall questions. They will be calm.



I am satisfied. I need nothing. Forgive nobody. Then the fires. I know where I am. This ancient night. The recent night. I longed to. Look around often. All well at first. Proud as punch. It did not occur.



All my life. I might draw. Now at hand. If all goes well. May plague me. The one thing. Will be there. About the thing. Then I shall. Still alive. My not having. Not to know. The old fog calls. Blind road what. Well-charted hopes. This is a mistake. It is a weakness. There it is then. Time that remains. Itself I suppose.



Things pushed on. Most above me. Weary face. The long spike. Best when all day. Built proper night. Breadth he said. Could not fail. From my poor box. I was not judged. Midnight. Little wind.



Indeed I could not. Would not. She is summer. I am gabber. I was one day. Possible like any. Either faster. There was one day. From might have been. Were lovely days. And summer. My birds. Had trusted some. Were missing some.





Poet and editor Peter Gizzi is the author of several collections of poetry, including Sky Burial: New & Selected Poems (2020), Now It’s Dark (2020) and Archeophonics (2016). With Kevin Killian, he co-edited My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer. He lives in Massachusetts.

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