On Reading Galway Kinnell's The Bear
by Kenneth Wanamaker
yesterday I left my fingers
in a voting booth, arms and lips
at the cinema, my groin
on a nine-seven-six line.
now I pull together the wandering parts and crawl
into this carcass of morning
I drink espresso and wrestle
with the lump of sputum
in my throat.
one night a bear snagged my meal sack:
seam-sealed bags of granola
and powdered milk. He left his claws
in packets of onion soup.
He didn't crawl into my tent.
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