The blackberries are blighted, but we managed
to make jam from them anyway. Even though
our teeth have been vandalized by age,
and our socks have lost their twins,
we walk into a world stubborn as a mirror,
where the low sky scrapes our backs.

We hold the road like a clarinet, our blackened
tongues searching for the reed, the only music
the treefall behind us. Our faces etched
and angled like keys, we are searching for
some mystery to unlock, knowing that
when we do, one of us will vanish, one
of us will stay.

wolves in the walnut tree
doubt
wild vista inside

Keith Polette