Friday, August 26, 2016
We strove to locate love on a list of symptoms
hyaline when held to light and found instead
nothing but bones, and of the sort you relish:
a kind of bicker in the throat. A jetblack end.
We thought we saw the dark cursive of a wolf
circling on sea ice, miles out, in an hour
not blue, though persuasive and brief.
In looking back, it was not dog. It wasn’t
anything. It was not the heart burst forth
but another part: one for which the words,
the shafts and shanks, their shifts, have long
been sung, and in the same breath, lost.
Joan Naviyuk Kane