By | 1 May 2019

In the city
there are wolves in men’s clothing.
One bares his tongue, a man
howling serrated speeches.
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,
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.

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