Conversations with Wolves

Talking to you
is like forcing myself
through a very small hole in a barbed wire fence

with the small brained certainty
that the field on the other side is sweeter

Halfway through and no way back
A final tearing heave is the only way

And then to realise I’ve left behind
strings of soft fleece hooked there in the wind,
and there are
corresponding scars
on my naked belly.

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