Wolf

It’s a kind of banging, a constant saying which we beasts can reach without the least bit earning, only taking on the years, still aging—as if it could be worth waiting out. See, demons, we sight with focus, which needs such that we put off the pleasing. Put on our slippers and appear as these appear to be—easy. But light bleeds nightly, and we sit nightly by, whether deserving or faking. So what we do with the making—that cream beads, and dogs lead, and evening teeters after—is really where we need to learn to lean. Where we ought to rest our eyes, despite how the bird is calling us to rise. Only what happens when what might have been matters? The boy who cries will be believed, if only he can make the saying pleasing. Demonstrative now, as cowards run the backs and sit behind desks behind doors. All glory to the pages, the errand is the acting and the only visible god is acting out. Over-arching cost, we need to consider how irrevocable each stretch and shrink of chord or statement is. Can it be that the figures are all too individual to figure? I have two grandmothers, before them four great-grandmothers, and as we reach ever outward, the focus, the weight must lurch sudden as a child building momentum cannot stop his speeding downhill hurtle, can’t even think to hope for the glancing tumble in the end. How horrible it must be to be seated between your parent and your child, that awful gap upon your ego—that you have been fully skipped over, and likewise that this is probably the closest you’ll ever come to grasping in full any sense of place or meaning in your own accelerating stint. No, we must hold onto that devil telling us that all is not well. For in this we are given chase and purpose. And only with such a stacking are we given the chance to do something which is both truly of us and real. Mud is part of the human experience too—though who’s to know if our eyes are upturned? It’s always been about bettering the standards, salt and sugar to color the tongue, while hustling out of the hole. See, this is why though often I wish to consider your shoulders and neck as impossible porcelain and your hips and your legs as the tenderest stems, it can sometimes be hard against the other truths of physicality, a blight on the dirty honesty that when blood is simply blood, although love is love, I’m little more than a dog looking in. Though my eyes are begging and perhaps they seem sincere, my teeth are not and my hunger is never. So remember this glimmer as you wish. The telling doesn’t absolve me, only makes the hunt fair. Listen to the lending tongue. Hear what the heart is knocking. I’m in love with the balk of you. But I’m caught at the barking, what which heaps and hurtles time in skinny business. I’m a dog, darling. And you are the hand that feeds, indeed the hand that leaves a thought upon my head, leads me light through the lot, to the grass and trees and demonstrates that all is well and steady sometimes. That located above is something both better and believable.