There are no wolves in fleeced mohair, are no
Harbored dens of humanity’s kind, no
Footprints of angels in snow, plod upon,
Everywhere to go, I know … there is snow.

I live a life of life unpurged, I show
What to do in fettered experience.
I wonder if I do, show what to do,
I think. I wander Grimm, and, wonder cold…

There is a price to mohair fleeced, with no
Chance of shattering druthers, there are no
Footprints on the moon as blind as mine. So,
I guess this is an old experiment

Of Death. I cannot fail to dispute souls’
Wails of evisceration. I’m no one.

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 9/17/06