it could be anything airplanes, mice, socks, wolves these sounds, they turn to ghosts in the night. their howls become me, somehow. I always find a way to write about birds, even though I know that everyone expects me to write about birds their wings, maybe, their small and yellow beaks, their flight and descent the patterns they make in the sky. there I go, my obsession turning to ash. I will give you all the wolf poems and call them a book, or my musings on danger and its definitions. maybe there is a place for all of this, some last chance that erases the fear. it wraps up all my vague and bloom-red scars into lush bouquets of blood. this is how I search for the wolves. find my blindness in a place I cannot accept as part of me. it is a weakness, coming to the woods and forgiving the shore. I cannot own or disown anything. not in the right way. it’s all too final for its own good.