Today I think about my benevolent dead. 

They did not live 

to see this shame

but lived through 

something wicked once. 


As expected, now the wolves. 

The sun rose in a different way—unexpected—

but rose nonetheless, blood first, 

as the farthest horizon tells, 

in a way onrushing. 


The smallest legs

on the crawling fears, fur-twitch 

and nerve scribble, warm

from the star’s distant promise

filtered through what miasma


a sky can make when choked. 

The light neither reddens like blood

nor rust nor burnt leaf-edge nor crust

of feathers. Call it a new red, 

cut from a creature 


newly known, unshadowed, 

with teeth unexpected 

where they are long, and claws

sharp, reliable, as expected.