Harry Wooler

Three Poems


Account of a City

The drivers working the main station
have stories of worse years, but still the cold
succeeds in impressing most visitors.
Besides the climate,
much is made in guidebooks
of the distinctive, long-cheeked physiognomies
of local women,
and the peculiarities of the dialect.

Approached by plane at night
a thread of light bodying through low cloud
is the first suggestion of a city.
This is the road
that ties the capital to the coast.
Without it, there would be no city.

On particularly cold days
they call it “cold to the roots”
by which is meant both the roots of trees
and of teeth.


My supposed cargo is only ballast.
Flight’s purpose
is other than payment.

On touchdown, my lips
are untouched by champagne.
My business is flame, rope,
and lift of fattened silk.

Acquaintances 4

All the novelists I know
are turning thirty;
now are teachers and marketeers.
Some smoke cigarettes, or entertain

political beliefs.

One of the novelists I know
is fond on Saturdays
of a chair by his south-facing window.
He likes it that
you need both dust and light
to see either.


Harry Wooler works in marketing. More of his poetry can be found here: anomalousmaterials.silvrback.com.


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