Wild Wolves We

Wild wolves we,
who travel three dogs deep,
the timber towering overhead,
the snow crunching under feet.

You're on point again
nose deep in a cool wind current
that will carry our prey.
Comet and I nip at each other's heals,
taking turns as the third one in line.
Your undercoat colors bleed through
the sunshine bleached fur…
darker than obsidian,
richer than Orion.

This season pushes us forward,
provides us time to grow roots,
from which we will harvest our fruit.
But for now
we must relish these cooler days,
this lack of light.
"This cover is really camouflage"
you say without opening your mouth…
the Moon speaks for you!

And then,
we're off,
canine legs pounding
through the crust of white,
three mouths salivating at the sound
of crackling underbrush,
and the warmth of the kill 
close at hand.

You reach it first,
fangs and fury up its spine,
forcing it to the ground.
We aren't far behind,
but we let you take your time.

When it's all said and done,
and we are fed and fond,
we sleep three deep
atop the white canvas,
our symbols still steaming,
drawn in long crimson arches
over the snowy terrain. 

Vestige

Forest vines -

earthly roots clasp 

together like hands.

Thick brown knots -

wooden barnacles

encrusted with pale lichen.

Branches tied together,

a collage of frozen umber

cloaks pasty skin.

Eyes reflect

the sun's gleaming rays -

chiseled emeralds within.

Those vines so tight -

long cappuccino stains 

poured over arms and legs.

Rain envelops her body,

a violent tirade of grey.

Leaves stick 

like glued paper -

her only time alone.

Esophagus packed with moss,

she is becoming 

plant. 

 

Tundra

The earth's balding surface,

studded with burnt match tips,

wavers like a ball of mercury in the heat.

Luminescent waves crash

on green shores

of crackling chaparral.

Animals cringe against heat,

fur explodes in flames

like firecracker wicks.

Eyes loll;

cracked marbles

in reddened sockets.

After the firestorm,

the ground is littered

with bodies 

now reduced to black piles,

sooted skin peeling from

ivory faces;

eye sockets wet

with softened marbles. 

Spoilage

Lightning dawns on the horizon;
eyes drifted upward 
breathe in the glittering show.

Water pours from the sky,
harvesting cake from my mouth.
Pasty white frosting bleeds
off my chin and down my chest
like melted clown skin.

Thick copper strips of wax
seep through my pores,
boiling golden warts 
upon my shoulders blades,
then growing transparent
and leaking feathered crimson
down my spine.

My skin is whipped egg whites.

Molded cheese blossoms in the sky,
as acrid blue fireworks.
Crystalline flies
swarm from the explosions
drowning me in stagnant hues. 

Radiated, I finish my pastry
and fall limp into the cesspool of grass,
swarmed by green mechanical thoughts.