Short of a tongue's whip,
mirages of life
nest between the teeth.
My words, oh, wilted flowers,
can only describe the past
in its verisimilitude.
The accountant who uses only irregular verbs
drinks tea - efficiently -
forever hung on the visceral power
of heavy silences.
The ropes of his youth
have tightened around his neck.
A human in a wolf's order,
explaining the human wonders
with the cycles of a wolf's hunger.
Talking to the accountant
is like howling back at the amber moon,
is like surrendering the whip
to a torturer who only looks human,
but human his tongue is not.
His tongue is lurking behind
an evolutionary principle.
The battle is between myths,
rarely between monsters.
The accountant is talking about wolves
with slumped ears and curled tails -
decrepit wolves with decrepit pride -
that humans call dogs.
The wolf that speaks through him
is both elated and grim.
Talking to a wolf is like eating snow.
You'll survive to be a shadow.
The accountant chains the shadows.
Then time turns backwards and
the mirages of life get a past.
The past is an unlocked cave
with a wedding photo shoot at its mouth.
As you try to cut across the guest line
to enter the cave,
the maid-of-honor yells
that you can't get in without a guide.
The photo shoot is an eternity
of festive life
against a dark cave that lurks,
holding an unexplored tremor.
The one-syllable growls of the accountant
over the yells of the maid-of-honor:
it all syncs together in a beautiful symphony,
in which monsters die, and
The accountant scares me -
the way he looks at the maid-of-honor.