ZACH SAVICH


 
 
POLISHING THE BOARDS UNTIL THEY BEAR AGAIN

Faucet’s sound a phone ringing, as sweat
continues long after a jog and evidence

may ever only suggest, So pears hang
like transcontinental airplanes’ oxygen

masks in the side yard where small ferns
are, Whereas sun xylophones through worn

barn slats and the water looks clear
once it settles, Time of day in which you

do not sit under a tree but beside it, Now
I believe in ancient Indian poetry one lover

far from another thins until the sound
of dropping bracelets covers the city,

If the sun is unpictured in theory these shadows
go on forever bracelets dropping, They have

a theater made only of curtains, but I’d prefer
you shouldering a bedsheet, think

of that curtain touching the brick water
moving again so nothing is clear but present
 
 
 
 

COSTING NOT LESS THAN EVERYTHING

I took to taking mine with sugar. The whole
nonfiction. I like your smell, she said.
Her teeth turned, as from not saying something.
Echoed branches. To pass a threshold as an hour.
A piece burned enough, it served as slower fuel.
I had no idea. Barn patched with wire.
Branches in wind we learned a position from.
He carried a coal in his pocket. He wanted
to black out his prints. And: to leave them on
the river birches. This was seasonal in every season.
They leave the heads on rabbits so you know
it’s not a cat. He would stew it with onions.
 
 
 
 
 



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