Listen to Wesley McNair read this poem.
In the old allegory of the wolves
chasing the dog sled across
the tundra in the waning
light of life, I myself
am suddenly the aging man who must reach inside his chest
to find some failed organ
that might appease them,
though all I have now
to throw over my shoulder is this small offering that lifts
in the wind when I turn back,
flying apart so high above them
it has nothing to do
with the gathering darkof their bodies, and their swift
legs that barely touch the snow,
and their cold, patient eyes.