a pallid pebble
hunter's moon edition
Lycanthropy
The man-wolf bays, cites the moon
as influence, leaves original,
fleshy imprints in bark, clay,
stone—a warm spoor,
rough-edged & dripping,
exposed to, letting in,
the abiding darkness.
Its howl, overheard echo,
eludes, its twisting path,
opaque to every horizon.
For what am I to create?
Bereft of mystery, these,
my pallid pebbles,
dry & evenly dimpled, roll
across a poreless green, gather
in constant light, glance
past each other unscarred,
unknown, partaking only of
the minor pleasures
of an afternoon.
Meanwhile, nearby,
the man-wolf sits
curled, waiting—
some thing some day
is bound to rupture, crack,
& drop straight into
its ravenous, accepting gullet.
