James Hoch



What I wanted -- white light,
           white heat -- was to turn

grief to glass. Flash, strike,
           and love like the blue wick

of a blowtorch. And I got it
          -- hell, yeah -- by tongue, by fire,

by entering and finding
           nothing but the backdraft

of entering. Now come
           the waves, the ball-peen

shimmer in the waves,
           touch means shattering

and fearing a wound,
           I offer it a place. Here --

my collarbone, a pleasure.