Sunday, July 31
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. (John Poch)