We track this slow animal in the snow
because it leaves a blood trail
and we think that makes it vulnerable
But then it circles back
breaks the trap and eats the bait
and suddenly disappears
Or comes up behind us
to prove its fangs are real
and at the same time
whispers to us in a soft voice
It lives in artefacts
among monuments and ruins
and at night drinks and carouses
and knocks on doors with its pommel
touting a swashbuckling history
But then finally grows old
and into a child again
was when it was first only a word
delicate as freedom or liberty
dried into a fragile antiquity
subtle as synapses in the brain
or the language of animals
Sing louder they say
and it will leave us alone
and when we dream of flight
it proves to us we have not
the wisdom of birds
George Moore’s collections include Children’s Drawings of the Universe (Salmon Poetry 2015) and Saint Agnes Outside the Walls (FutureCycle 2016). He has published poetry in The Atlantic, Poetry, Arc, North American Review, Stand, and Orion. Nominated for seven Pushcart Prizes, and a finalist for The National Poetry Series, he presently lives on the south shore of Nova Scotia.
