Best Poem of J. Barrett Wolf

Boston Moon
On a warm midsummer evening
I ride the sixty or so miles back from Boston
Playing tag with a terra cotta moon.
Blood orange dark, at first, through the trees
It waivers, disappears, leaving a tint of
slate and indigo blooming on the spaces
between each whisper of cloud.

The heat of the day leaves me . . .
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Changing universal joints.
Replacement the hips live in a slow sea of grease.
The floor is insulated from my steel-toed boots
by a cushion of grime and 30-weight oil
leaked from a free-form sculpture of disembodied engines
growing like an iron-based cash crop along the concrete wall.

This is no assembly . . .
Read the full of Mechanic