You ask about the wolves.
The reports are unclear,
but it is said that they are without number.
When they run the long, empty roads it is as a dark rush of water.
When they reach the town they flood the empty streets
and stalk the bare rooms like shades.
At the height of the day the hollow shells
of churches and railway stations
fill with the heat of their breath.

You ask of their hunger, the strength of their jaws.
It is said that the forests are stripped of their bark,
that the graveyards are turned to churned earth,
splintered wood and bone.
It is said they are digging deep in the hills.
There is nothing to be done.

The wolves can sense all movement for miles.
No one walks near the fence at night.
Drivers keep their eyes on the road,
their windows wound up tight.
They know what bristling, breathing darkness
stalks beyond the headlights’ arc,
beyond the singing wire.

But you ask about the wolves – what do they know?
It is said that they sit at the mouth of the mines
for days and nights,
staring into the flooded depths.
You ask about their eyes.
There is nothing I can say.
They have gazed into the light at the end of the world,
then turned and walked away.

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