that there is anywhere left to run to.
the grief –I thought she would leave
she said that she loves me but I am not me
and to leave is her right
but this
this theft this death this violence she has done me
surely she wouldn’t
she said she loves me– is endless,
incomprehensible as death.
lies feed each other, smallest into biggest,
until they grow as epics do,
with the weight of blood.
she was my home
she has taken my home
in an epic, home is something left
something lost embattled remembered yearned for
–a mistake only a mistake surely it is a mistake –
and running only takes you as far as your strength
but collapse can be forestalled, held off, kept at bay
as long as the sun doesn’t rise to burn the shadows from the story.
and in the end they’re human shadows
because to a wolf forever is a night and a forest
is the world and we run –
perhaps tomorrow
tomorrow it will be over
nightmares are pledged to end with morning
tomorrow is a human word,
a linguistic concept, a lie of language.
I have a human grief–
and a wolf’s voice under a wintry moon,
