SONNET

The wolf prowls the hills, kills what it kills.
We make our house on stilts to avoid
the firm ground and the loose ground alike.
Sounds of a prophet and the soundlessness
of a hermit as heard from outside
the city’s limits is inscribed on the backs
of parking tickets. I sit in the car
searching for anything to write on. Mirror!
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Window! Dashboard! Light! I invite the wolf
inside our Chrysler for a ride. <em>Christ</em>,
my wife says when I text her a picture
of the wolf in the passenger’s seat (and
I agree). After an hour the wolf
sets me free, leaves, transfigures into these.

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SONNET

A bird flies out from the mouth of the tomb’s
wound, to the hospital shaped headache
<em>I’m doing this for you</em>. The apartment’s
a zoo full of different shaped fish fins,
each denoting a different kind of suffering,
and each depicting the exact arc of
the heart within the heart within the heart.
The wind slams the screen door into fours
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as grace which is the word “grace” slips away
between the bare branches of the rain.
I hear that everybody loves the sound
of a train in the distance: sing, sang, sung.
A pain forms at the base of the skull
and then moves to the other side of my mind.

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