by Terence Winch

The trees bark your name.  The wind
whistles your theme song.  On Facebook
dogs and babies sing out such praise of you.
Aliens ask for you every year on your anniversary
but still the ghostly faces projected on dark
brick walls of the city stay silent.  No one breaks
the required fast.  There will be no red meat
for forty days, some say forty years.  The sands
of the desert turn red.  Security is tightened.

The garments in the windows on the avenue
are threadbare, the men’s pants, the ladies tops
all now irredeemable, the fashion drained right
out of them.  A martyr is laughing into the camera,
joined almost instantly by a thousand more,
their teeth clearly visible in the sunlight.
A salesman sells raw moonlight to a pit bull.

The gospel says the unknown will deliver
the pastries, the sexy bodies, the horn sections
to any destination, day or night.  The strangers
have their hands up.  They surrender.  Their tale
of loss cannot be told and will not be heard.

People who love have 12 years to make their case.
After that, it all turns to sweat and kinky flourishes.
The system does not look back.  Destiny cannot
be lured into the final episode where all is explained.
It’s in the wreckage where they always find the flight plan

by Terence Winch

My love is upstairs heating macaroni.
She is also making bowls of soup
and covering them with paper towels.
She has items in the fridge that have
been there a long time and that I know
better than to ask about.

My love has left her clothes in the washing
machine for days.  She dries her things
by draping them on the furniture.  Come
to our house and you will see underthings
dangling from chairs and cabinet knobs,
little flags of peace signaling a truce.

by Terence Winch

Aristotle poured himself a drink.
His lust was unslakable.  He carried
his books with him everywhere,
even when he travelled to abstract
realms.  He never wore shoes.
His body was out of favor with
his mind.  He ate three meals
a day and called them
truth, experience, accident.

Thomas Aquinas liked to hold
his books open in front of him
as he walked down the street.
People would stop and read.
“Don’t let the unicorns out!”
his books would warn.  He was
deathly afraid of unicorns.
Once he saw God hanging His
wash on the line.  Sheets
bigger than a ship’s sails.

Last, we come to Descartes,
his real name.  I almost doubted
we would get this far.  It’s so late
right now, and people are
expecting me elsewhere.  So
I’ll just say this: Descartes
was extremely muscular.
He could hold up two pillars
of thought simultaneously.

by Terence Winch

The day began like any other.
The sun came up.  The Albanians
put their garbage out.  The cello
players wrapped their bodies
around their instruments and
held on tight.  The CIA agent
across the street examined
the flowers in her front yard.

Wherever two people are
gathered, there shall you hear
dialogues concerning the pain
of existence.  Wherever the dog
owners congregate, there you
will encounter the tremendous
joy and energy of mere existence.

Then the trucks grumble onto
the street.  The ground vibrates.
The men mow, chop, and clip.
They toss the empty cans wildly
in every direction.  Such exuberance!

The Night King has been vanquished
and now the wolves, the dangerous
girls, and the fragile old men can sleep
easy in the dream of resurrection.