Where are the wild things ?
Somewhere in a ritual or habit.
Inspite of the communal hunting.
Our nets and drumming cannot herd it.
We never kill it all.
Wild grizzly freedom is out there in the courage I never had to turn wild.
To turn tiger, jackal, no, rodent.
My heart is smaller than a mole’s. I am not half as bold.
For I fear and love the dark spots under the trees.
The same ones in broken down houses.
In unoccupied hospital rooms.
Something dwells there.
Something still dwells inside me.
And thank god, for that.
For a useless solitude.