Poems in the wild #3

Poem #3 (3 of clubs) was released last Friday on a table at Rue Bebelons, house of fine wines and lunchtime baguettes. It was gone when I came back from the toilets, but whoever caught the little whipper-snapper is keeping mum about it.

In any case, here is poem #3:

She licks her wounds, warm

and earth-sweet, ripped open

like old ground with the smell

of hot new blood. She had

received them in her wolf-time,

days after the moon was

a fingernail and her own

was a claw.

Low through the teeth

twigs snap sharp with the dark

Dog music curled at last against

the welcoming rock, her new

smooth legs bleed and tremble

with the memory of wildness.

Poem #4 (9 of spades) will be released sometime today...