grasping, with the tips
of her fingernails to that
last, imagined chance, she
has the sensation she is
floating slightly above the
ground, so focused she is
on that long held ideal,
the elusive, eluding, winking
wolf who passes her in the
hallway, nips at her heels,
scratches at her door, then,
just as suddenly, gone.
missing his warmth, the
bulk of him, his eyes, but
not his tearing teeth, his
scratching nails
and last chances going the
same way as lost prayers,
written out and used as a
marker in a recipe book
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