by L. Swain02 Aug 2013
I howl at the moon, my throat crackling,
Gruly fangs drip of grim thick spit morose,
Eyes dilate open pools skyward craggling,
Mane of tangled rough from heel to nose;
I smell the thick unbattered scent of love,
My claws sink into the insubstantial earth,
I convulse—a heart of pulply ribs do shove;
I smell fresh love and unsequestered mirth.
Of me you make the motion, of me!
Of me your silken skin dilates of pearl,
Of me you make the man you to want to see,
Of me you break the form and file of churl;
I will run to you—stream these hollow woods—
I will find you—fortune will bend or break—
I will have you. I rage through th' forest good.
I don't need a trail, nor lantern's bake,
I don't need a word, a sound, or hope—
I will have you, no crook neck notions quake,
I will have you—Now!— bar conscience, bar hope.
My heart flares, and flares, and flares for you,
I pant as dusty earth flies beneath my paws,
I rush to you, my Love, I rush to you!
My heart pervades the name of fortune's flaw.
Wait. Wait for it! Wait for me, I come.
To rush on you from foggy forest run.