Three by


Mark DuCharme





One Who Hides



Hurry, while I still don’t grieve

Some of the silence is made out of words

If I follow, which I doubt

Before the insurance money kicks in

I’ll have to get it stamped

& Wear the right suit

With some of the blowback still underneath


She was having none of it

It was time for cold sandwiches & lemons

The man held up a National guitar & grinned menacingly

“Some of this silence is made out of words,”

He crooned, though it hardly explained

What everyone was doing there at the bodega

At five AM sharp, looking as if they’d found another clue


To the Circadian Codex, swathed in myrtle

As all true harbingers are, when daylight slips

Away between their toes, & night

Commences its ominous silence made out of words

Words that one had long ago forgotten rhyme

With ‘smoke,’ ‘infinity’ & ‘one who hides

With his face pressed to the door’





Hunter’s Moon



I don’t know that I’m

So much outside

The scene, as the scene’s

Outside of me


I don’t know very much more

Than I’m willing to say I mean

I’m sorry then to meet out loud

With a true industry leader


While all the other indices remain

Pure fan fiction

I sing the festival circuit

Far from defective machines


Throughout green seasons’ vital usages

These are those who are with us still

After day friends soon impart

Raw notice of intermittent birds


Whose characters stretch all credulity

In moody October, under

The yellowing trees

A stain or series of stains binds us


Whose souls are burnished flight

A lavender knapsack, or

Is it too early

To view lost films’ ancient trains


Your depredation is now complete

Your bill is ninety-four dollars

Close tab, then stumble

Is it possible to like a poem


If you don’t like the ending?








Can the soul whistle? I think I hear it now

Under a too-bright sky. Can you translate

Doubts? Have books ever haunted

You? Truth moves


By radiant means, to get past us,

Through you, through life itself & beyond,

To think past what’s gone wrong, what still

Goes on with us. In what tight corners


Will you soon wander through? We’re still sometimes

Present to each other

Knowingly, in absent times. & Then I think

Too needfully


About what is yet unmade— made flesh, in fact

By emptiness. & Then I want to

Find you there,

Collapsed among the masses, or mattresses— embodied


In a moment jangled, multipli-

cities of tune, so mediated, so unrehearsed,

So hidden from natural view. It’s true,

I was an outsider under the table—


& These are moments I decline to

Be in, when we are all untrue, but drifting

Into play. Dwell there in that

Periphery, that great hope, rising


Which seeks the world from without

As the shambling townspeople all gather, knowingly

At the horizon, like cracked chalices, crying,

“So here you are again. By what bright jouissance


Is the land

Embedded in your gaze?” Nothing

Else is absolute but this, & if you wait for it

Long enough, the wind won’t be standing in


For you anymore. Jump off it then

& Let it flow

For a day or two, at least

In ways the lovelorn kindle us with scorn.


I take it the song is still going on

Though you are here & whistling

Like a thief in blonde architecture.

Something there is is being settled now


In this furnace that night means,

In this mix of sirens & balcony chatter.

When the rest of the world merely wishes to be

We also want to be set free.


What lingers does not move us now,

Copped by hidden thrills

Alongside nights held open, torn—

Aching to be believed.









Mark DuCharme is the author of We, the Monstrous: Script for an Unrealizable Film, The Unfinished: Books I-VI, Answer, The Sensory Cabinet and other works.  His book-length work Here, Which Is Also a Place will be published this summer by Unlikely Books.  In addition, two chapbooks are forthcoming: Scorpion Letters from Ethel, and Thousands Blink Outside from Trainwreck Press.  His poetry has appeared widely in such venues as BlazeVOX, Blazing Stadium, Caliban Online, Colorado Review, Eratio, First Intensity, Indefinite Space, New American Writing, Noon, Otoliths, Shiny, Talisman, Unlikely Stories, Word/ for Word and Poetics for the More-Than-Human World: An Anthology of Poetry and Commentary.  A recipient of the Neodata Endowment in Literature and the Gertrude Stein Award in Innovative American Poetry, he lives in Boulder, Colorado. 



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