In the city

there are wolves in men’s clothing.

One bares his tongue, a man

howling serrated speeches.

Listen.

He assures her

flesh gutted the knife

not the other way around.

He tells her

the women shot him; it is instinct

to swallow them whole. 
Delirious imaginings: skeletal fingers

wrists bound,

gagged,

rib gouged; he is rabid.

Claws stretched between birthmarks

torn, and muscle bitten raw.

Gnawed upon,

their names are an afterthought.
The city, dressed in embers

an ethereal pyre evacuating dawn,

reveal apparitions as common limbs

hidden in lawns, beer bottles, bed sheets

back streets hazed with sweat,

white sheet.
Wolves costumed in leather shoes, perhaps, boots

matched with suits or linen shirts or t-shirt or no

matter their frivolous choice,

they howl and forget evening’s blood.