Copihue Poetry

I have no memory of when I was a lion or lamb or an iambic pentameter. I was not on the phone with the Pope just now. Nor will I ever assume the alternative. Who was at the door, yesterday? The doors to a hundred hungry wolves. Gray wolves in the white snow. Cousins in Chicago snowed in for the seventh Christmas. I’ve never been in the snow because I’m afraid of leaving California. The California sun shines even in winter, but just several hours a day. Enough. Enough of it all, said the wearied Magician. The Magician of the bureaucratic night. Goodnight. Goodnight, all.