William Simone Di Piero Poems

The silence of night hours
is never really silent.
You hear the air,
even when it doesn't stir.
...

Bobby Hutcherson in Oakland
The mallet strikes but something's off,
and so he hits again, curling that lower lip,
purses his brow, as if this sign, this minor woe,
...

a thing that's called radar love,
the whole hog calling,
and here's unhoused Ginger,
distracted wind-beaten beauty
...

My aunts mentioned her just once,
calling her my aunt, their sister,
though she wasn't. They mentioned
the vinyl recliner in the kitchen,
...

She visits still too much, dressed in aromas
of fir needles, mango, mold: I still get lost
knowing she's close, me not getting younger
or more conscious. Sometimes I fantasticate
...

Where are you now,
my poems,
my sleepwalkers?
No mumbles tonight?
Where are you, thirst,
...

There's no description in the braided stone,
the pear, the stone in the pear, the birchbark,
bread hills on the snowfall tablecloth.
The dog of work gnaws the day's short bone,
...

Its small celestial reach stops
where the counterweight, the first
tough green fruit, pulls earthward
and returns the brazen, almost rank perfume
of blossoms now six months gone.
...

The Santa Fe Depot's Moorish architecture of displacement—
squeaky kids trawl satchels through the shed, happy voices
mystically far from home, the waiting room's fizzled, tiled light
of life lived imperfectly between one where and another.
...

going on everywhere
in summer's cold wind
winging through hollies.
...