Zach Savich
Poem After Last Night (1)
A ladder built into the exterior of a truck,
all anything does is confide, every morning
beginning now, decency its own kind
of constitution, each step onto a balcony or
from a cafe with little outdoor seating,
not counting the city. "What year
is that from," the mother says. "First century
A.D.," says her son. "But that's a hundred
years."
Poem After Last Night (2)
We proceed by pattern and anomaly, had
no money but lived above a bakery
and a florist, just-aged flowers free
in a trough. I liked how you called the street
I always take "the secret way," two fingers
held to a passing dog.
Poem After Last Night (3)
We go to the cinema merely
for the light, view of alleys
from a balcony, to be in
the world and it is mythic:
zinnia market in the church yard,
onions in mesh, daylit moon
a watermark on foreign currency
