John Poch
Well into Winter
The moon goes down like a coin. Spent,
even memory is becoming a memory.
Any tree would seem to grieve,
what with the hawk lonelinessing
The day has never been so much the night
and vice versa. And the afternoon
never so much the afternoon.
Meanwhile, meanwhile.
*
Years ago, a child put a coin
in the crook of this tree.
Now, the sun is drawn up
like a pail from a well.
The pail is poured out and snow.
Pablos Herrero
John Poch
Thief
Before the snow, I stand in a darkening field.
The milkweed of fall, like a city appalled at night,
take flight. The thinnest parachutists
leap past me, a bigger building being built,
no lights yet, so much undone, the new nudist,
a gasoline pump in shadow; miles inside.
*
Bundled up, bread-handed, fortune shines back.
I look for cold because her breath could spin
a nail into blue yarn, so white is the milk of it.
The season holds on like a possession.
Stained glass puddles around me like a shell
melted and thinking of the fall of a color
television, memory gone to snow.
The night sneaks down the hill with its oil coat.
Inside the lining, a blunt metal confession.
Preporuke:
