John Poch

No Disillusion

Flower today, rhetorical vermilion in my throat,
and flutter my attention to the reachable branches.
Each day you open your chemistry of looks I am
a millionaire of moles. I don’t want the violence
of a human watercolor in mostly silver to mimic
anything more than olive trees reaching
for the horizon on these rolling plains
where the high-speed-train you inhabit
is a dream of some god of arms.
I crave you the way the Spanish love
the olive tree. I hate all others.
Clothes hide you like gesso veils a canvas.
If you were paint, I’d pull the great trowel
of my strong forearm across your curves
slowly with almond oil to reveal your colors.
Has no one copied your alabaster
in bronze, or your bronze in alabaster?
I mostly deny a belief in ex-angels.
And then you brought the bread and butter.