Friday, March 30, 2012

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...

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