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.