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
