Places we leave
slick our bodies
with silky air
or foam we feel
faithful and tickly
(even somehow taste)
but can't clearly see.
We wear its weight
like atmosphere—
runs, blots
of what we've done
in and with
each place
—what to do
with it now?—
and what it does
to us still.
Source: Poetry (June 2008).
MORE FROM THIS ISSUE
This poem originally appeared in the June 2008 issue of Poetry magazine
W.S. Di Piero was born in 1945 in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and earned degrees from St. Joseph’s College and San Francisco State College. A poet, essayist, art critic, and translator, Di Piero has taught at institutions such as Northwestern University, Louisiana State University, and Stanford, where he is professor emeritus of English and on faculty in the prestigious Stegner Poetry Workshop. Elected to the American Academy of . . .
Continue reading this biography