John Poch


Now, there is a fine vine fire blue
green illusion in your arms
no couturier could deal,
no dress on a door could adorn,
a deliberate witchery of rhythm
in your sobbing. I want to be you,
and your cheek against my chest.
I am.
              I mean, yesterday
I was something else insignificant
like a chipped stack of black dishes.
Let some yard sale be done with them,
or send them to a tornadoed town.
Arrange them at the foot of a broken oak
with napkins and faux-fruit.


Are you one of the gods, girl?
With your prehensile style of loving,
you are the reason for groves.
There is no child in you, yet.
Let me say I will clothe the prairie
with a tablecloth of praise.
Bring nothing. Bring nothing.