WOLF AT CHERNOBYL
Winter and
no roadside picnic
no Tarkovsky disturbance at
the heart of the dreamscape
I am
pack-driven running wild with
the wolves at Chernobyl,
wild with
my gold
and black genes
streaming through the turnstiles
I am
myself a wolf
become
one by default
mutation, transformation,
transubstantiation
what was latent in my blood
found alchemy, became real
surrendered itself
to this project
of reclamation
running hard, running true
as softly
yet faster
than you would have ever
thought it
everything
gets effaced
and in truth, to your eyes,
as we
luxuriate in the silence
move so
muffle-footed, we must
sound like nothing, look
like ghosts
appear as the icons of
every irony of your presumption
threading our way through
the wreckage of your hubris
shock
of the horror, which
in your misunderstanding of
your power
you unleashed
upon yourselves
I am
wolf at Chernobyl
outlined against
the stark
whites of winter
I am creature of
these forests whose message could not
be more clear.
poems 2 die for 