Jon Wolston's Poetry Archive

We are putting all
the candlesticks away.
Chris returned in haste
to the Big City
last night
from our low-energy environment,
our heart-chandeliers.

I passed the archduke
his brown monocle in an
envelope of pride.

Pleased, he sauntered far
to the brink of his green wood…
arrested, arresting.

Patients haunted me
last night. The gap-toothed client
and the scalded man
tore across my sod
on motorcycles of sleep.

Mossy castellations
of hot shame soaked
the feathered recess
of my comforter
till the sun
came up
and I
walked
to the post office
to pay the government
for all its trouble.

Let’s put it this way.
I don’t miss licking Forever stamps
one bit.

Zeta came around today,
nuzzling my wrist intently
her red eyes glowering,
nary a bite.

In the yard
Io made a racket
and tracked in more mud when
I came to the door.

Their litter dispersed,
black-and-yellow hairball diaspora,
each one lately
coming into her own.

In the snow cupboard
plates of steely vacancy
mesmerize my soul.

How I long to crunch                                                                                                                              
your greasy rye to lick my                                                                                                                     
fingers wrist and die

to stem slow hot curds of Russian running towards a ruffian elbow

farmer in the dill                                                                                                                                     
allspice and bib overalls                                                                                                                        
corned beef wunderkind.

I fixed the rudder                                                                                                                                     
with three coats of spar varnish                                                                                                            
over Thanksgiving.

Ethan helped me out.                                                                                                                              
The springs were too strong for an                                                                                                       
old fart to put on.

Yes, we embroidered                                                                                                                              
what was once all splintery                                                                                                                   
and stifled in tow                                                                                                                                 
up in New Hampshire,                                                                                                                        
knowing spring will come early                                                                                                            
with our new stove in.

Blue mountains shimmer.                                                                                                                      
Big Squam laps my shore-rock throne,                                                                                   
sanding my privates.

It’s only polite—                                                                                                                                       
leave your shoes at the door.                                                                                                                 
No need for your socks                                                                                                                           
or for condoms, you boar.

Mom’s waiting for you—                                                                                                                         
take a breather, you goat!                                                                                                                       
No need for the boss                                                                                                                                
to hand you a note.

A bit of a stretch                                                                                                                                       
sure is good for a gal.                                                                                                                              
No room at the inn?                                                                                                                               
Allons nous! J’ai une salle!

I wait in the dark                                                                                                                                      
as Troy drags his tawny jowls                                                                                                                
through red leaves, snorting.