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Wolf among dogs
where everybody is snarling I howl
long and pretty
then go down a hole till dark
where the clock is full forward
my day is quiet and backward
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Wolf at the door
against the whole table
a tooth of night
pointed at any
glut of mirth
Bird lover
how sorry is the wolf
to eat a wing
a wolf hard as the mind
to do something with
Triptych: Against Moderation
Where the buck took a hunter’s bullet & lay down
in the laurel, a dozen chipmunks are calling
in unison – mallets on a xylophone
all striking the same, middle bar.
Too much moderation seems a dangerous thing.
We are only ever saved by what exceeds us.
When old fields fall to subdivisions,
the kinds of thoughts that need an unbroken span of sky
vanish along with the hiccup of the Henslow’s sparrow,
the wind in the grass.
A few house lots hazarded in the forest
& the wolves begin to forget how to lope,
halt in the middle of a howl –
a freight train wailing through the gap two hundred years later.
All it lacks is the shiver – such a small thing.
It hardly seems reasonable to demand the return
Hibernal
what fear at every cough
in the coffee house
the poorest body
must be a winter
made of a hundred fish
with snow at the bottom
the dead come to life
flesh hollow as wax
they inhabit
the violence of the winds
and no dog but a wolf
could help us take joy
Wolf from the door
We pay the wolf
with a fine house
in heaven.
Save me from nature—
not a sister
but a servant.
All night it drums
in our ears.
Illusion
A wolf wound up the twisted slope,
Its hide gleaming silver and eyes like to sun,
The farther it got the closer it seemed.
Upon reaching the top the beast stood still,
Clouds black as the night's fresh veil,
The mountain it climbed had looked taller before,
But the wolf lost foot as a piece did fall,
And it tumbled head over tail.
Battered and bruised but very much alive,
The peak of the mountain reached above the clouds,
And again the wolf climbed the beaten trail,
For this was all it knew.
Time and the Order of Death
Mountain, Wolf, Oak, Bird, Dream, and I
are here together today.
All waiting the decision
that time will announce
about which or who will flee first
from this siege.
We talk, kiss, sing and help each other,
while not forgetting
even for a moment, the deception.
Although the world
has more than enough space
for all of us,
we still feel cramped
and stealthily we pray
for each other’s death.
Then time starts reading its verdict.
Dorcas Gustine
I was not beloved of the villagers,
But all because I spoke my mind,
And met those who transgressed against me
With plain remonstrance, hiding nor nurturing
Nor secret griefs nor grudges.
That act of the Spartan boy is greatly praised,
Who hid the wolf under his cloak,
Letting it devour him, uncomplainingly.
It is braver, I think, to snatch the wolf forth
And fight him openly, even in the street,
Amid dust and howls of pain.
The tongue may be an unruly member—
But silence poisons the soul.
Berate me who will—I am content.