Words, she says, used to be wolves.
They lined up on the mountain peaks
to tell the moon about the difficulty of climbing
the slope, the complacency of the flux,
and the chaotic movements of migrating clouds.
They placed their anger at the moon's feet
when it turned the black book of night,
went to sleep among the ranting of the pages which
spoke of a gold-leafed country where
sleep drops into the wells with its load of turbaned stars.
But wolves don't know the Orient.
Her wolves do.
[LAUGHTER]