at the Bronx Zoo. The ones I loved when I

was a child. The borough you have never been to. 

I keep speaking to you in poetry. I'm sorry.

I never thought I would be this way.

​

The clouds

were low and lifeless.

The tongues laved carrion

livers. A fawn awoke heaving somewhere

in the Russian Far East, amazed at its being alive.

If you cage the animal, it cannot hunt.

​

I am crazy

and desperate.

The taste of your tongue is not

a memory. The tiger bit at beef from a grassy upstate

farm. It tasted like licking a brick wall

and was entirely

unimpressive.