Wrong-Gone Wolf

The wrong-gone wolf trails
a flag that won’t stop waving,
not even when the forest has
been flattened & abstracted
into a panel of sea-green glass,
or when traps gape like tooth-
less ancestors who built
their reputation on raising
wayward human children,
pulling the moon from the sky,
that kind of thing.
The wrong-gone wolf can lie
down & sleep beside a fire.
Rabbits graze unperturbed
in the margins of her dreams,
where she goes to hunt for
the howl in her throat
& finds nothing but clipped
syllables of command. Released
once more into her native habitat,
she laps rainwater from
the parallel tracks of a creature
whose feet never lose contact
with its enemy, the earth.

5 Replies to “Wrong-Gone Wolf”

  1. Thanks, Larry and Jean! I had already powered down the computer, gone to bed, and was drifting off to sleep when the first words of this poem passed through my mind. Ordinarily I would’ve ignored them and gone to sleep, but for once I forced myself awake, turned on the computer, and grabbed pen and paper for the first draft in bed — a far cry from my normal composition process. Anyway, your responses make it seem as if it was worth the effort. I’m glad.

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