He doesn’t know.
His friend writes a book to him,
names it Wounded Bear,
each poem a soft bullet through the paunch.
The Bear asleep beneath his assumptions.
The Bear dreaming of an escape, in the name of Love.
But, he doesn’t know.
This is a friend with a secret he can never believe,
in the endogenous winter
behind the heart’s lodge,
birds of the wood warbling the cantata of dark animals.
Who is it keening over a Wounded Bear.
She writes in a letter:
counterweight to a vast, sad, damned world.