POETRY May 11, 2018

Another Beverly C. Wetherald Hides
from the Ranger at Spirit Lake, 1980

Michael Pontacoloni

by Michael Pontacoloni

 
He won’t find me here! What a rock.
What a hemlock.
What a last night on the dock
                         under a wet net of stars.

And the lake more clear than sky. To be alpine
is to be wine-drunk
off pine trees, to wear the fine
                         fraying lace of clouds.

All this rumble and smoke,
the mountain soft-spoken,
is a whimper to me, a whine. This morning I awoke
                         on quivering earth

and knew the heart of the volcano. Hopped-up
on never enough. Full of un-stop.
Hands in the air. Ready to pop.

Michael Pontacoloni's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Denver Quarterly, Pleiades, Mississippi Review, Zone 3, and elsewhere. He has received awards and support from the Sewanee Writers Conference, the Vermont Studio Center, and the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. He lives in Hartford, Connecticut, where he runs a small vintage clothing company.
Michael Pontacoloni’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Copper Nickel, Denver Quarterly, Pleiades, Mississippi Review, Zone 3, and elsewhere. He has received awards and support from the Sewanee Writers Conference, the Vermont Studio Center, and the University of North Carolina at Greensboro. He lives in Hartford, Connecticut, where he runs a small vintage clothing company.