The Unrequited: Poems

Vespers

On a shoulder of interstate north of here
a man wraps a small dead wolf in newspaper.
I think he sees a movement in the eye,
some kind of reflection, a cloud swelling with snow
or a three-quarter day moon, the man's own head
when he leans to see if the wolf is still breathing.
What does the man see in the eye of the wolf?
It isn't a soul, wolves don't have those.
But he lays the body in the trunk of the car,
taking his time, and returns to the road and drives
to some other place. I suppose the man owns a few acres where the wolf may be properly laid to rest.
A stem of phlox to mark the place, a brief prayer,
then back to the house with his sons,
who keep quiet because they know how hard the day
has been on their father. In his room, the sound of wolves
in snares, not a howling sound, no, a labored breath
through the nose. He walks the corridor till the sun falls
in rectangles on the floor. Beyond the trees,
pale blue mountains. Clouds breaststroke across the field.
What did the man find there, in the still black eye?
And why did he bury the wolf so close?
And will a plum tree be standing there come spring?