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The Coyote
by Jack Hardy

Pain farms with their non-urban romances
with sonic maidens who cite rimbaud
scarf-wrapped earrings without chances
of restitution in the arms of the cold
alone is the coyote who scratches carefully
down the vacant streets of storefront tombs
alone is the coyote who dances madly
with anyone who ritualizes under the moon

Pain is lost in the womb of promise
a paradise founded in the dying guilt
blaming all in the tomb of compromise
in the precise wound that it helped to build
alone is the coyote who suffers openly
vinegar to the lips of dying flesh
alone is the coyote who acts majestically
on the stage of count-down when his life is a mess

The torch is set to the sweet pavilion
where the ladies dangle their husbands
on diamond-studded leashes worth millions
in the fine print of contracts of understand
alone is the coyote who left all behind him
to chance freedom in the wisdom of the fool
alone is the coyote who changes his mind
when the chance comes to break all of the rules

Distance is a metaphor divided in ruin
to the victor the ashes, to the victim the crown
resistance is a luxury provided with doom
where the fool-hardy fantasize all the way down
alone is the coyote who thirsted so patiently
for the moment of truth that betrayed so soon
alone is the coyote who stalks all the graveyards
digging up the promises sworn to the moon

Contributed by Elena C. Suggest a correction in the comments below.
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