Is this the poem that needs to be sung,
and could catch you raptured in a flytrap’s deception
without considering the predicament?
I am not ready for this. I hope you know that.
A thousand times I shout the woods around my cabin:
the trees that lean and my attraction to happenstance.
At times I miss the howling and am consoled
by the coyotes who tear
both carrion and garbage, circling in reticent packs,
yelping a strange fervor for survival.
I ran over to my neighbor’s farm
when he shot a young male,
and we drank beer and poked at it saying:
“skinny little bastard” a number of times.
‘It could have been me,’ I said:
crawling with a curved back
under your strung wire
testing the line between us.’
He shot it using a thirty aught six with a light scope,
emphasizing the gun over himself,
and I wondered if, at least, that was good.
We laugh and accept each other
in the most peripheral of ways.
A poem I guess never needs,
It is difficult to approach complexity
most of the time only seeing what it does;
and what we calmly point to as truth
is just a weariness with fraud.
Rooted from tendrils and runners
we recall a greater fertility,
and crowd each other with weakened fruit,
becoming an untilled ground of cousins,
tangled in feral heroics.
Not necessarily vague;
I’m just haltingly convinced of something,
and being a qualm it is with myself —
There is really very little I know about you.
Things just get a little weird:
going through fewer and fewer transitions,
knowing I’m not a coydog.