Mark DuCharme

New Poems From the USA



            Touch. To touch where
    Ridiculous, you struck me
Toward a vocabulary of what was stable
Will send regards
        Yes, it’s all true

& The hairs on the back of
    Your neck— ridiculous
Everything smokes
I didn’t choose it either, you
            But do not flaunt

        What to see, or
Mirror, imitate
The train got lost; it was an important
        Who’s still not caught
Miles down the line before it stood

And you & me, &
Them, &
        You me, them, then you & she
We had still not talked about it

Miles from frantic interplay
To wear in the uncloudy
        Or sing to—
Without any care or
Thought, before it’s through

Yes, I do deserve it
Yes, to sing to—
        & Sing some more
Without any


In the catalog to
Phase this out;—
    Left, at the root of
To not be torn

    Away. I had studied the trajectory
Nullified in plastic
Without wanting to
        Disturb the petitioners
Nor any single heartbeat;

Let’s say we are in motion

The answer, tacitly, had not occurred

But I seem to have broken my prism while chinning;
That is one sort of effect you’re going to have to
        Get stilled at

But for now, there’s breakfast, & some sturdy tweeds
To put on, &
Be seen in—

The wind slightly ruffled;
    You have lost your
& Then later, when the antiquarians came, to
        Fetch it....

It was a joke, somehow, a categorical
    Imperative that looters

But for now, these questions keep stiffening

All around me. We are still cut off.


& Under that volatility its skin
Could not support the panic
        Or even suffer— akin to being
Cared for—

In a functionality or
Being taut— the
        Fact the uncloudy
Went unrehearsed

            As if sported by
Greater distances than

To sear in the abortive
Could not support the range
Whereas, at night, in the corrosive
    Theory (sunlight given texture)—

            ((Logic of taut shadows))
To skin or care for—
Evades functionality
An implicit, burning theory

Without ever evolving
Without ever asking for
        It, without ever giving way

To stare in the corrosive union—


Or rushing
    In the uneasy
Heat, where things

That claim or horribly
Are used— in the body
    A condition of salt

    I could no longer say this:

Though I could no longer

Say, & do
Anymore, in a fear of

Bodies of anything tracking—

That was the power
To creatively misunderstand a point
    Where you almost

        I didn’t inflict it

Pale or afterwards
In the unannounced
    Where bodies’ conditions
Glare, in rushing

In the onrushing, horribly
Glare, or say this
Any more— a need
    Withstood or, written, knew—

Thy salt, a climate unannounced—


        & Did I inflict it?

In the say or anymore

Bodies of anything in the tracking knew

Thy glare— the tides’ rushing—