To be whimless, o monks of melancholy,
to be continents completely
colonized, to stand
humped and immune, digesting,
redigesting our domestication, to be too too
solid flesh making its slow
progress toward fast food.
To feel our heavy heads becoming knock-knock jokes,
who’s there,
kabonk, Big Mac, to know our knees
are filled-in ampersands, things to fall on,
not run with.
To put all this to music – a bellow
which extinguishes the wolf, the long arc of its howl
reduced to gravity and spread,
ghostless, flatulent,
over the overgrazed acres.