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