Why do you say all the wolves are lonely,
come growling to our doors with foamy lips
to steal away the babes and beauties?
But I’ve never seen a lone wolf track.
The snow and leaves rot over them
or the caribou run them over, defecating on that shrine -
or their own claws kick up the clods of green and crud
that carpet the pine tree, tundra clime of our cloying catharsis.
These babes and beauties that welp in spring
have become our metaphors and motifs.
Never compare yourself to a wolf, unless
your words run as long as these loping lines,
an uncontrived choreography by a troupe of bushy players.
and you are unlike them unless you sing in howlish chorus
a symphony as bright and charming and imposing as the sky.
Lone wolves are rare, apes are known to wander
one lives in any light, one believes itself master of the day,
I’ve seen a man break another’s back,
but I’ve never seen a lone wolf track.