November 6, 2005
Not a Monolith
I am a wolf who wears these streets
thin and silently graceful in choked lights.
Insects march the road in crooked rows;
the moon draws a canvas of their fears.
I was six-legged prey only yesterday,
barren then, playing chess with the cold.
Fever stalked me: stubby legs, five-foot-four and bald;
I measured it pacing in my wake.
Tied to a rough grass bed between sliding walls,
silk writhing against wrists, yet a destitute.
Leaves sigh ballads to my feet
I dance the asphalt red, dance until it cracks.
I am a released, re-carved story to be told.
My shoes drip blood and salivate escape.