Scrawny Timber

The wolves of memory aren’t done hunting
The thundering heart and blood-flushed muscles
Of their prey still trying to get away.

They’re ravenous, they’re famished, they’re failures
At this essential coordination—
Look at how many of their hunts conclude

Nose to tail in the den, bellies empty,
Or, at best, half-sated on smaller game.
There are sleek, thriving, silver packs out there

Chasing the largest, darkest memories
By moonlight in the shining mountain snows
Packs that bring down the shaggy, rolling eyes

And gorge themselves on their recollections,
But this tatty pack howls and half-pretends
That maybe the forest lacks for recall,

Lacks midwinter’s trauma megafauna
So substantial any reader running with them
Could live on the marrow of emotions

The wolves were too full up to finish off.
These wolves of memory aren’t done hunting,
Won’t ever be until life’s by the throat.