Wild Thing
The urge grows
it makes me squat over
traces in the mud,
poke leaf shadows
with a fingernail.
I can ride eventide
and grind the starlight there.
The hair in my ears;
on my back
is recent.
There’s a rainy-day musk
I can slide through.
I sniff tightly closed blooms,
the blue pelt
of a twilit distances.
Under fading gleams
a prowling yen,
as I slip through
the grease
of running shoulder blades.
I am not your wolf or mine.
I am the moons mirror
that follows
your own wild thing.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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