Porkopolis

Wolf

• A wolf is reading a book of fairy tales.
• The moon hangs over the forest, a lamp.
• He is not assuming a human position,
• say, cross-legged against a tree,
• as he would in a cartoon.
• This is a real wolf, standing on all fours,
• his rich fur bristling in the night air,
• his head bent over the book open on the ground.
• He does not sit down for the words
• would be too far away to be legible,
• and it is with difficulty that he turns
• each page with his nose and forepaws.
• When he finishes the last tale
• he lies down in pine needles.
• He thinks about what he has read,
• the stories passing over his mind,
• like the clouds crossing the moon.
• A zigzag of wind shakes down hazelnuts.
• The eyes of owls yellow in the branches.
• The wolf now paces restlessly in circles
• around the book until he is absorbed
• by the power of its narration,
• making him one of its illustrations,
• a small paper wolf, flat as print.
• Later that night, lost in a town of pigs,
• he knocks over houses with his breath.