‘To A Poet’, by Franz Wright

The sick wolf wandered off
grazing
in his wound’s limping shadow
sidereally alone and immune
to self-pity
with no need
to describe how he felt
and no need of doctors to die
Dear Fear
fuck off
I can write to Valzhyna
Dear Valzhyna
I woke up this morning
groping around for a pen
to write these words down
on the palm of my hand
I don’t know what they mean
it is just what we do.
The wolf woke with steel teeth
of the trap laid by men
clenched his wrist
and did what was necessary
and wandered off.

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3 thoughts on “‘To A Poet’, by Franz Wright”

  1. “I woke up this morning
    groping around for a pen
    to write these words down
    on the palm of my hand
    I don’t know what they mean
    it is just what we do.”

    I just added that to my fat anthology of writing quotations.

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