"Oh hell, here’s that dark wood again.
You thought you’d gotten through it–
middle of your life, the ogre turned into a mouse
and heart-stopped, the old hag almost done,
monsters hammered down
into their caves, werewolves outrun . . .
Instead you have a silver noodle
with which you must flay yourself . . .
alone in the woods with a few bats
unfolding their creaky wings."
(Which then inspired my own poem, "Backdraft")