Wolves in the Blood
Artists of the new, the bold, the brave,
poets with wolves in their blood
escorting them to the forest maze,
a no man’s land of thickets and thorns
or a land of virgin nymphs
and sleepy meadows,
or the unknown that quickens the blood
that slams into the walls of the belly
and runs into the fields of the unknown,
A maze of danger lurking,
wild grizzlies around the corner,
trees with arms that smother the air,
a new something, a bomb, a hell,
or a writing beyond words and form,
beyond the chalis that houses the wine,
a new land, a land without a name,
a word without a home,
a beginning without an end,
a space within a space,
a sigh within a sigh,
a word whittled down to nothing,
a gesture of the unseen,
a story sleeping in a deep field,
a story that never was,
a new land, a new nothing.
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