I don’t want to get emails from
            the wolf people anymore, but
they know where I am—have known
            precisely where for ﬁve years.

The saying to trot out here is I don’t know
            how this happened, but it did, and
I do: in line before a show at the little Boulder
            theater, approached, I took off

my gloves to sign my wobbly hand
            to the clipboard. All my vegan
friends thought it was a good idea.
            They’ve given their lives such

serious thought, and I don’t know shit
            about wolves—never introduced
in the ﬁrst place, let alone reintroduced,
            which is what the wolf people

were advocating for. A coyote, sure, or
            foxes, of course, despite the terrifying
screams. One night in Dublin, thick with
            beer, I saw a silent fox waiting

on the stairs, beneath a plaque for Jonathan
            Swift. The fox felt more like him,
Jonathan, than the death masks, more
            honest than all the cathedral’s crap

about sharing his bedtime lamp with
            his good friend Stella. I hope they were
good friends, joined at the wick; I do
            hope wildness ﬂickered at their tips.

For me, this has been the ideal: the roots
            deeply sown, a solid grip from
the earth held fast so the branches ﬂy
            free. The limbs daring a little more

in their bloom. I do hope the wolves hear
            the aspens beneath whispering
their return. It has begun. (I read the emails.)
            I like to imagine the wolves, now,

at the fringes of an alpine meadow,
            recognized by the blue and purple
buds, the latent snow. The water beneath
            them diverted by a ridge: two paths

toward different halves of the world. The people
            downstream debate their habits, if
we’ll like when we all meet. The wolves simply
            go, signatures beneath their feet.

poetry-magazinePetition for Reintroduction

poetry-magazineWoof, This Heat

Petition for Reintroduction

Woof, This Heat