Wolf

Wolf, I saw you down at the shoreline.

I saw you run under the aquaduct.

The rain made it all a blur.

Wolf, I saw you on Sunset Boulevard, the cars swerving,

that night when the horizon stayed orange.

I saw you later in the trash, your eyes yellow, hollowed

out, your fur oily, dark –

you probably heard the cello suites from the third

floor. Bach is still alive, but I can tell you he’s in a storm too

the notes afire and falling: good, like breathing

in.

              Only later

you might have noticed

or not, with the staleness in the Los Angeles air,

             the ghosts and angels.

Wolf, I see your legs running.

The ocean is vast behind you, boardwalks, the ruins of the carnival,

the voices calling. But you know how to run.

It’s all a storm, wolf. I see you only now.