Wolves mate for life,
humans separate
at the flip of a coin.
The moon is filling
and I'm absolutely alone
walking huddled in my coat
past a snow-capped bush
of frozen roses.
It could be worse.
I could be some mindless
male insect killed by
my lover the queen during
the act.
Instead I stand, human,
crazy with confusion
just looking at frozen roses.
Once, just once,
I thought it might last.
But tonight I know
the wolf never thinks
of the tomorrow of love,
or of working it out,
or the cold, poetic significance
of frozen roses.
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