Were the gates to open, how many would survive
And reproduce surviving offspring? Few? None?
The lean and undersized she-wolf circling
And circling her pen might thrive a while.
All these overfed ungulates, fowl, and exotics
Would be easy pickings for a few days, maybe,
But the coyotes and possible mountain lions
Would descend from the cliffs to feast as well.
How long for the pair of coatimundi? How long
For the fallow deer? The cerval? The wallaby?
The cavys? The goats? Peahens and peacocks?
If wilderness were what lives that artifice
Has not shaped, then there’s no wilderness
Left on this spinning rock. But, if wilderness
Is only what drives what lives (and we words
And other signs and wonders don’t yet quite),
Then the hunger remains in the zoo itself
And the cliffs around the docile ranch motel
Are full of teeth and claws, microscopic to large.
A wild burro, so-called, brays in the dark.
Open the doors and flee with the people.
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