J.T. Welsch

Two Poems

The Great Mosque

Today’s waiting room is blue with babies:
chairs blue, carpets, noticeboard blue,
blue flyers, print, maybe print-out,
August Macke’s Kairuoan II…
Console us, faded, printed maybe,
blue. Soon, a man’s head calls the name
no man has called you since you were one.

How does that feel? The spine, alas,
with its kinks around L1 and T12,
is old as gold, and young
as erosions in a fishless sea.
Your tricorne camels are on the move.
Don’t worry, little August, big Alice
will be just another planet soon enough.

Soon, let’s have a look will be all it takes.
Note the blue tower in the distance.
Soon enough, he’s petty, then curious
about the chiro. Is it true, he asks,
they have some kind of gun?
I should make furniture. Who will buy it?
It’s the quilted columns that are old as empire.

Should I tell people you’re dead in five months?
We are getting movement. It just wants educating.






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