At Least

Not for those
who quit, but who
walked through winter
to more winter,
splintered lines,
ruined scripts,
canvas,
feet and eyes
and started
again again again

The last of stale coffee
down the throat
do I need to say
“again”?
But
sometimes
I can feel
the wings
burn through
my shoulders.

Always running down
this hill, wild dogs
bite when
I walk, bay
when I sleep. There
is no way to put
this down peacefully,
beautifully.
It needs to rip
off your arm.
At least.