The Future of Love
       

Our bodies
turn us on,
turn on us

like Turner's
skies from seas
turn over

until waves
go whitecap.
Disaster

loves the past
but few love
the future,

except for
the dying
who believe

the present
hurting will
un-harden,

find harbor
in the way
a birdcage

on a dock
in shadow
beside a

giant ship
is open
and waiting

not for birds
but for a
museum

and your eyes
which look through
me, see, say:

Let's make love
under an
old black grand

piano
otherwise
known as night.

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Copyright © 2022 John Poch All rights reserved
from Copper Nickel
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission