Like a painting we will be erased, no one can remain.

I saw my life as a wolf loping along the road
And I questioned the women of that place.

Some regard the wolf as immortal, they said.
Now you know this only happened in one case and that
Wolves die regularly of various causes—

Bears kill them, tigers hunt them,
They get epilepsy,
They get a salmon bone crosswise in their throat,

They run themselves to death no one knows why—
But perhaps you never heard
Of their ear trouble.

They have very good ears,
Can hear a cloud pass overhead.
And sometimes it happens

That a windblown seed will bury itself in the aural canal
Displacing equilibrium.
They go mad trying to stand upright,

Nothing to link with.
Die of anger.
Only one we know learned to go along with it.

He took small steps at first.
Using the updrafts.
They call him Huizkol,

That means
Looks Good in Spring.
Things are as hard as you make them.

The Wolf God 

by Anne Carson

i heard whitney johnson play on campus and wrote and met and got other matchess albums which i have and have not played but i'm listening to a new one, huizkol, based on the poem above. i love— 

They have very good ears/ Can hear a cloud pass overhead. 

i'm gonna order anne carson from the lib now. reading america on fire, may be too sad, and i got another waiting after arcadia. i was thinking books and circuitous walks are my travels, far enough.

now attending to change.