what the animals do
I’ve been thinking of you; what the animals do
frightens me. Even in the heat of the season,
when reason has abandoned me for some shade
by the lake, I feel eyes through the trees–all eyes
on me, waiting.
You told me you are a patient man,
like most wolves. There are no corners or heights
unknown to you, even in the dark.
Even in the light, every angle of your face recalls
something missing from me.