from the trestle

30 May

now i know you to

be the howling

i heard against

my night

for so many

moons

the you who plants

seeds among the bones

of your

summer kill

warrior fruit for winter

you told me

once

the you who is always

watching

though never looking

stalking far along

the tree line

leaving no trace

of your scent

the you who

slips among the

uninspired who are

bleating in

circles

the you with

sleek black pelt

agate eyes

arrow tail

ridge raised neck

sharpest teeth i

ever admired

inside the beautiful lips

of a famous

poet

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