Calling a Wolf a Wolf

Each morning, I dig into the sand

and bury something I love.

Nothing decomposes.

I listen for the sighs

of people who love me, each agitation I create

a reminder that I am less than constant

in my grace.

I’m learning how much of myself

I don’t actually need. It exists, a world without

this dumb neck

I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

This may be me at my best.

Everyone

I love is too modern

to be caught

grieving.

it’s true I suppose you grow to love the creatures you create

some of them come out with pupils swirling others with teeth

earth is a giant chessboard where the dark squares get all the rain.

On this one the wet is driving people mad—the bankers all baying

in the woods while their markets fail, a florist chewing up flowers

to spit mouthfuls here and there as his daughter’s lungs seize shut

from the pollen. There is a flat logic to neglect. Sweet nothings sour

in the air while the ocean hoots itself to sleep.

Islam there are prayers to return almost anything even

prayers to return faith I have been going through book after book pushing

the sounds through my teeth I will keep making these noises

as long as deemed necessary until there is nothing left of me to forgive

blue water plus yellow sun equals

green plants it’s almost too simple to speak

I always hoped that when I died

I would know why my brother will be so sad he will tell

his daughter I was better than I was he will leave out

my crueldrunk nights the wet mattresses my driving alone

into cornfields unsure whether I’d drive out I wish

he were here now he could be here this cave

is big enough for everyone look at all the diamonds