There's a sickle of moon

above a lush forest floor

where scavengers pluck

flesh from the bones of

a wolf.

In my mind the wolf

hides inside me

waiting patiently the

impulsive lamb.

Dark heart I hear you

howling for possession

stars plummeting through

our veins.

A frenzy of birdsong

can not conceal the

longing that lingers

in these bones.