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at the scratch line

it’s understandable how the wilderness can seem naive

in the presence of the city, but i can’t identify that

when i’m running with the wolves.

my paws are purposefully placed.

if i was better at speaking directly

you might not have called me wild,

but when you say: act, i think: i am,

like an animal.

a wolf is enthralled with the moon because of decision

not eagerness and sometimes when i can see the moon during the day

it makes me howl unprofessionally while the sun is out.

it’s true, i’m easily excitable and i’m not sure if you understand

that i recite no fairy tales but spend time memorize
the names
of deities.

you don’t know me very well but i sense you

feel comfortable enough to make commands.

it confuses me.

i don’t know you very well.

i write— what i would otherwise try and say directly

with no understanding of what you sense,

it is my stretch before the run or my heals digging in

or my knees bent so i can better handle the impact
sometimes, my paws over my ears).

where the bodies are buried

you do need to find where that cemetery is
because those bodies will tell a story— and
trust me, they will be in the same grave, one
layer or two, thrown or laid to rest, they are
maybe the only truth entangled with each other
because they have settled together but you have
to remember who was buried first and how many
times the earth has been disturbed to add others
and then you count them, and you name them if
you can name them and you sit with them
because trust me, you will need time to think,
as you decide if those bodies are arranged like
yours are, or if it’s too different and you can’t
handle knowing where they are.