Diana S.

Adams

Wolf
Fox
Egg
Moon
art by Alayne Spafford
 Wolf Plates
Autumn-oiled, evidence
of another portal, he eats

a patch of beets, our knees knock-

knock, our arms form little V’s

to hide our trembling

interiors, our voices escape

from their carpeted compartments. Wolf-

love
(lunar, terrestrial)

torpedo-boats through night’s thin

tunnels, green-dark rooms

connect with water, wilted

light, pepper smells of earth.
He’s tired of iron and hides
a delicate cabinetry. Rub each joint.
Tend each raggy hair.

Absence, death, guilt over family:

wring out the various sadness’.
He will appear indifferent,

looking for tufts of forest.

Place him on a slope
of road. Offer up oranges.

His electric field can start

sparrows, all inner forces
unmoored. Keep him close.

He can hold a live hen

in knife teeth,
bathe it in road water.
Wolf Fox Egg Moon
I won’t tell wolf I love
fox, fresh eyes, hair red,

half-musical breath. In hacked grass

we have all we want:

discarded tension, eggs, saying nothing,

self-polished dreads. Gold-blood birds

read our sly, accurate dramas.

Sometimes confusing

questions with answers, we share

the pavements opinion of light.

In dead brush, selfish

fox streaks marks of intent.
Waiting for Snails

In our valley of ice we practice looking

heroic. We’re hungry, head-dressed with forks
& cups, without one sign of anything

winged. Bat-eyed hunting dogs, a river of sick

sturgeon, all of Wolf’s fears zig-zag,
rash. Little barbs smart down his middle,

he’s sullen, pre-surgical, lowered. The doctor

on a snow bank reads from The Book of Summer
Conversations, Wolf shakes, untwists.

‘This is going to be a fast trip’, both of us hold

the phrase in case it vapors. Sudden lichen-light
opens the possibility of snails, rain nests.
Purification

On Tonquin mountain we eat

bowls of steam from night’s wind-love.

A wolf bursts out from tonsured trees,

sick–cheeked, knotted blanket coat: here, here

come, She, She. We have leftovers for boredom,

and Beaujolais. Snow between us

opens tight-whipped teeth. Come wash

your curls, She, in our grave of air.
Quick Fish

A nice net is widening, taunting

out speckled brown trout. Rose-scented birds
peak peak, peak peak, hiding in the alders
the musk-smoke-old-corn-coat of a cougar.

Wolf sends out thick-sewn running-at-you

warnings. Today’s wind, when it comes,
is available for work. On the highway, hot trucks
salt our fish with diesel exhaust.
Wolf, Pursuit

In the tree bed he runs

his tongue, warm as a hand,

to a groan. Hovelling beside,

coke-black fox with his mouth of light

winks. Wolf watches the crosswalk,

people with their glasses of gold,

unswallowing. We could be discussing war, water

infected, interrogating papers. What happens

with avoidance. Fox might find a way,

all summer washed in dirt, tragic but true.
Wolf Salad

There is an equation
for wolf-love: N=ðr^2+n,

a lopsided circle, an open

melon. Hands break off

lettuces, pleasure sleeps inside

a salad. So many ancestors

eating meals in sweaters,

spaces inside ice beneath

breathe, lungs. Every passing wolf

shows up as a solution

on our window. Dog shrieks,

each ache inside transferred to us.
Three Nights in a Tree

Weeks of handshakes, passing packs

of royals milk us of all potential.

At night I hold the stuffed crow

tighter. A holiday in maples shoots straight

from the sun, the air lends us keys

and conversation. Up here we move by scraps,

covered in mirthy whispers. Venus

Erycina lies flat as cat, cracks

tender oysters. Electric leaves lead

in B singing, do it, do it, do it.
Everlasting Wolves

Wolf croaks, the sound a rotten bell

inside a swollen throat. Wide bison eyes
cow us down, their craggy weight

unshifting in grasses. We backward

to a tent of cedars. One lone camper at dark
sings us a warm castle, dragon-scented

medieval lullabies. We go there, shouldered,

palming hummingbirds, greeting Canidaes from history,
packed, melodic, snouts and sharp smells.
Copyright 2008 Diana S. Adams