That death I remember

as I remember the brush wolf

at dusk along the woods road. It loped,

a line no longer than a hyphen,

and skimmed the scrub a half mile off,

then sat, to make a silhouette

of dog (but not quite dog). I sensed

what it was, but did not want to come

to the fact (to touch the rib, to rub

the raked fur at the crown). It stood, all legs,

low tail trailing after, then thralled off

into the laurel. I remember how the gum trees

looked that day, blushing

in unison. It was August. The air

was not yet cold.  There was, and is,

a privacy about the thing

that suspends one until it trots off.

To the mind. Or wherever the dead go.

From Dear Apocalypse by K. A. Hays. Used by permission of the poet and Carnegie Mellon University Press. Copyright ©2009 by K. A. Hays.