Have worn him away. Children’s gazings
Have tattered him to a lumpish
Comfort of woolly play wolf. He’s weary.
All his power is a tangle of old ends,
A jumble of leftover scraps and bits of energy
And bitten-off impulses and dismantled intuitions.
He can’t settle.
Is a young wolf, still intact,
He knows how to lie, with his head,
The Asiatic eyes, the gunsights
Aligned effortless in the beam of his power.
He closes his pale eyes and is easy,
Bored easy. His big limbs
Are full of easy time. He’s waiting
For the chance to live, then he’ll be off.