John Poch

The kingdom of heaven is likea hummingbird nest, the luckiestcup of air to hold a breastof solitude, but no, not luck but the bitter work of a long beak.Not work, but a thousand grassesof kisses. This is time collapsedto an empty watch after a week building, sewn and lined with down,and feathers, a . . . . Continue Reading »

Fear not, despite the evening’s crippled shinsdropping to dust again from your rooftop view.The anvil coming down upon the hammeryou witnessed in your dream will be for good. You are warned like any other—by the starsand distant fires, by lamp and even bythe inevitable blatant morning . . . . Continue Reading »