Coyote

With a wicked sense
but no eye that could see
we sought —
but could learn no kind
of satisfaction.

There is this language of turning —

(coyote hunts the night) —

and I am lost to it.
Always there is the forgetting,

but the moon has spilled its silver on us again.

And again
and again —
a clockwork dream
that hides then reveals
its hand.

We haunt the constant return.
We sing out! —
and are our own again.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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