All There Is

All There Is

Having slipped again our net of word-

weave, the wild thing we were

hoping to noose feels safe enough

in the silence to peer out from the brush

behind the house, nose probing

for a scent. For years now it has 

dispensed the crackers from our traps, 

stepped nimbly over metaphor cranked tight

like a trigger plate, mocked each fresh

attempt at a flock regardless how we fortified 

the coop, flinging down-feathers 

like breadcrumbs for us to follow

over the field, beyond the brambles.  

For all we know, it's like as not

tunneled beneath the house’s foundation

by now, making porous the packed clay

of our permanence. We can name it, 

but that is not its name. We can call it 

our pet, but it will not come 

when called. Is this, then, the end of all 

our being here, to coexist in glimpses 

and supposals, certain only that a hollow

 

so deep doesn't burrow itself, that to be 

unceasingly looked for is—at the core

of these castings—love's most feral form?