|
Spaces
The wolf howled under the leaves
As he spit out the fine feathers
0f his meal of fowl:
Like him I consume myself.
___________Rimbaud, “The Wolf Howled Under The Leaves”
It is winter in the forest of
Disabled leaves and smoke spume,
Shadows that stalk, sudden sounds,
All meanings forged in spring,
In summer, useless now as
Mold riven bread.
We walk for miles along unknown
Trails, our poems formed of lines
Torn apart from an anchoring
Grammar, made of echoes of
Hunger-driven beasts
On the prowl.
We drop one by one into
Swarm of ready-made graves,
Sinkholes rich in rotten water
And unmeasured depth.
You saying: we are our skulls
Kept hidden behind a façade
Of arithmetic and the works
Of Proust.
At the gravesites we cling together,
Drink bad wine from leathern
Hollows once flesh.
You ask: what is the way
Of world, unarmed fowl
Or ravening predator.
But what are words but frail
Arrows that have failed us
Even to now.
The wolves are here.
They circle, aim their narrow
Reddened eyes our way.
Who will eat.
Who will be eaten.
Doug Bolling's poetry has appeared widely in literary journals including
Georgetown Review, Tribeca Poetry Review, Blueline, Water-Stone Review,
Storm Cellar, Wallace Stevens Journal and Hamilton Stone Review among others,
recently online in The Missing Slate with Poet of the Month and interview. He has
received five Pushcart Prize nominations, holds two advanced degrees from the
University of Iowa and currently lives in the greater Chicago area after teaching in
several colleges and universities in the midwest.
Email: Doug Bolling
Return to Table of Contents
|
