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.

When sparrows starve in winter, doors
across the countryside are coaxed open
by their tiny, shining, hematite-eyed prayers.
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.

Copyright © 2003 John Poch All rights reserved
from Poems
Orchises Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission