Wolf Fox Egg Moon
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Transcript of Wolf Fox Egg Moon
WolfFoxEggMoon
Diana S. Adams
art by Alayne Spafford
Wolf PlatesAutumn-oiled, evidence
of another portal, he eats
a patch of beets, our knees knock-knock, our arms form little V’s
to hide our tremblinginteriors, our voices escape
from their carpeted compartments. Wolf-love
(lunar, terrestrial)
torpedo-boats through night’s thintunnels, green-dark rooms
connect with water, wiltedlight, pepper smells of earth.
He’s tired of iron and hidesa delicate cabinetry. Rub each joint.Tend each raggy hair.
Absence, death, guilt over family:wring out the various sadness’.He will appear indifferent,
looking for tufts of forest.Place him on a slopeof road. Offer up oranges.
His electric field can startsparrows, all inner forcesunmoored. Keep him close.
He can hold a live henin knife teeth,bathe it in road water.
Wolf Fox Egg Moon
I won’t tell wolf I lovefox, fresh eyes, hair red,
half-musical breath. In hacked grasswe have all we want:
discarded tension, eggs, saying nothing,self-polished dreads. Gold-blood birds
read our sly, accurate dramas.Sometimes confusing
questions with answers, we sharethe pavements opinion of light.
In dead brush, selfishfox streaks marks of intent.
Waiting for Snails
In our valley of ice we practice lookingheroic. We’re hungry, head-dressed with forks& cups, without one sign of anything
winged. Bat-eyed hunting dogs, a river of sicksturgeon, all of Wolf’s fears zig-zag,rash. Little barbs smart down his middle,
he’s sullen, pre-surgical, lowered. The doctoron a snow bank reads from The Book of SummerConversations, Wolf shakes, untwists.
‘This is going to be a fast trip’, both of us holdthe phrase in case it vapors. Sudden lichen-lightopens the possibility of snails, rain nests.
Purification
On Tonquin mountain we eatbowls of steam from night’s wind-love.
A wolf bursts out from tonsured trees,sick–cheeked, knotted blanket coat: here, here
come, She, She. We have leftovers for boredom,and Beaujolais. Snow between us
opens tight-whipped teeth. Come washyour curls, She, in our grave of air.
Quick Fish
A nice net is widening, tauntingout speckled brown trout. Rose-scented birdspeak peak, peak peak, hiding in the aldersthe musk-smoke-old-corn-coat of a cougar.
Wolf sends out thick-sewn running-at-youwarnings. Today’s wind, when it comes,is available for work. On the highway, hot truckssalt our fish with diesel exhaust.
Wolf, Pursuit
In the tree bed he runshis tongue, warm as a hand,
to a groan. Hovelling beside,coke-black fox with his mouth of light
winks. Wolf watches the crosswalk,people with their glasses of gold,
unswallowing. We could be discussing war, waterinfected, interrogating papers. What happens
with avoidance. Fox might find a way,all summer washed in dirt, tragic but true.
Wolf Salad
There is an equationfor wolf-love: N=ðr^2+n,
a lopsided circle, an openmelon. Hands break off
lettuces, pleasure sleeps insidea salad. So many ancestors
eating meals in sweaters,spaces inside ice beneath
breathe, lungs. Every passing wolfshows up as a solution
on our window. Dog shrieks,each ache inside transferred to us.
Three Nights in a Tree
Weeks of handshakes, passing packsof royals milk us of all potential.
At night I hold the stuffed crowtighter. A holiday in maples shoots straight
from the sun, the air lends us keysand conversation. Up here we move by scraps,
covered in mirthy whispers. VenusErycina lies flat as cat, cracks
tender oysters. Electric leaves leadin B singing, do it, do it, do it.
Everlasting Wolves
Wolf croaks, the sound a rotten bellinside a swollen throat. Wide bison eyescow us down, their craggy weight
unshifting in grasses. We backwardto a tent of cedars. One lone camper at darksings us a warm castle, dragon-scented
medieval lullabies. We go there, shouldered,palming hummingbirds, greeting Canidaes from history,packed, melodic, snouts and sharp smells.
Copyright 2008 Diana S. Adams