Sonnet of the Wolf

Though this world was made for ending
I remember staring down the sidewalk
in front of us and thinking: hands, we
should be holding hands through this light,
but then I realized you weren't real and
it was a greater dream than I ever could know.
This could be the end of the world, in the
kingdoms, holding hands with a shadow or two,
beings I thought more human than "faceless
phantoms," problem childs of the faded grey
of the sky warping overhead like a giant
musty blanket, pulled up from beneath a sleeper,
or a dancing, clog-hopping, twisting knee,
falling down to your palms, scraping two palms.