Like wolves in the dead of winter
we huddled together for warmth
knowing we needed each other
to survive. Now the sun is out
hot like honey on our bare faces
and we have settled into our old
ways, barely remembering how
we moved back then when love felt
more like love. Perhaps the biggest
tradeoff for this tremendous urgency
to be in the world again—on the road
headed somewhere, waiting in line for
bread or clothes, meeting a stranger’s
eyes in a crowded room—is that dull ache
we get accustomed to as we drift away
from our pack. There must be a name
for this new isolation except no one
has thought of it yet. But some nights
when the moon is high we lift our chest
and howl at that great white orb in
the sky and in the distance someone
howls back, recognizing that sharp
savage yearning that has kept us
alive all this time.
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