Author: John Poch

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Gradual, casual,
of a little less temperature,
not far from any sunlit travel,
you crab grayest over gravel,
stretching slow as cancer, slur
and crawl always catching up
like smoke to a fire. If I stop
from walking to look down
neither smile nor frown
shows in your blurry mirror.
Faithful, near.
You pretend that noon
doesn’t exist. Loyal
as a tea stain, you
adore the full moon
or a parking lot lamp. Oil
from the olive spilled
or wall fallen, who
or how do you unbuild?
Even my hand on this page
under light, there is an edge
you have on thought, queerer
the way you hedge
your bets ahead of
my smartest notion.
You like. Perhaps you love,
but you are less than ink.
In the darkest night, you think
(you dream) you are an ocean.