the howl rises from the forest

bruising the black night blue

 

*

 

I shift my weight

from heel to toe

persistent and slow

 

as if wading

through a field full of deer

 

*

 

if my breast bone were cracked

and pried open I swear

something other than my heart

and lungs

would pour out –

 

perhaps a blue wolf would escape

and disappear

into the black ridge of trees

 

*

 

I tilt my head, listening

to the howl

 

with the concentration of stitching

a wound closed

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Carlos Romo