Wolf, I saw you down at the shoreline.
I saw you run under the aquaduct.
The rain made it all a blur.
Wolf, I saw you on Sunset Boulevard, the cars swerving,
that night when the horizon stayed orange.
I saw you later in the trash, your eyes yellow, hollowed
out, your fur oily, dark –
you probably heard the cello suites from the third
floor. Bach is still alive, but I can tell you he’s in a storm too
the notes afire and falling: good, like breathing
you might have noticed
or not, with the staleness in the Los Angeles air,
the ghosts and angels.
Wolf, I see your legs running.
The ocean is vast behind you, boardwalks, the ruins of the carnival,
the voices calling. But you know how to run.
It’s all a storm, wolf. I see you only now.