There's no such thing as...

[owl]

an exit

[...]

Godot

[owl]

Truth

[...]

Peace

[owl]

Heaven

[...]

a bad orgasm.

[...]

...

[owl]

THE METAPHYSICS OF WOLVES

1.

The old woman rides the wolf
through the grained scarlets
of the sinking sky.
Wind licks her face,
thrust to a clouded howl,
and her blind eyes rest
on nothing, tongue stretched
in a scratching lurch
to the dark and shearing
blood of night.


2.

No protection, nothing
to keep the blur of wind
from tearing at our bones.
We cross packs of ice
hard and dark as a clot
of blood, backs arched
to knives of fear: ahead
a ragged line of skittered
shadows hunches fanged
in the cut of the field.


3.

Slices of shadow stalk
the sun, withering
in the fraying light
that pulps the weeds to dust.
We leap with the wolves
through the driven grass,
tethered jaws stretched
tight as wire, and string
them up like hunted birds
on the crisp and shredded air.


4.

Bones, wolf bones, shafts
of fire sparking
in the soil, steaming
in the hard beaten rain,
the long sift of ash
coiled in the darkening rain,
the swift bones sawing
through the soil, burned
to white stone in the quaver
and pump of silting rain.


5.

Morning chars the green
and pitted sky,
crumbling to white spines
that crackle like broken glass
under the skin of the red moon.
These things are fibered
vapor: the wolves still stir
in the bone yard, cusped between
their frozen dead and wailing
low in the wind and flame.


6.

There is nothing left to fear,
only thin bands in the sky that strobe
toward a foam of clouds leeching
the new moon, stars sprawled and brittle
as old bones, broken shadows sputtering
like flocks of wolves across the dark grass.
Do you hear them? Those howls,
hurled from nowhere to nowhere,
are the despair of another season
ground to powder under our heels.


7.

Those were the signs
we watched for, in that time
of pity and addled hope, things
that can be named like blood
in the cheeks or marks on bare wood
clawed to a lace work of exhaustion
and sorrow that smothers
the air. The rapture of self
in the shells of these creatures,
the sound of wind in an empty place.


8.

Nothing is plain, stirred
by the gesture of an unseen hand,
discouraged and cold as the dead
no one comes to remember
when the wolf moon rises, sheer
and gray as a shiver of recognition,
beyond the fullness of care and neglect
and the lost reasons of our lives.
Its light tonight is all
that makes the world persist.


9.

The sky clears to a dead bolt
of gray and the promise
of snow cracks like a dry branch
in the wind. The first stars
are out, streaks and pulses
and whorls of light that bite
into the earth. Ah God!
The turmoil of marrow, the singing
of nerves, the bellow of terror
from the depths of our lungs.


10.

The silence of the day falls away
to the low sound of God's name
in the hiss of memory
and old confusions, harnessed
to the shudder of the changing air,
stutter in the redemption of wind
and inwardness of stone.
Listen! The wolves whisper
of life to come quickened
in the depths of profoundest night.

Jonas Zdanys

[...]

....

[carrot]

This thread is really spooky.

8)