Unleashed
I can smell the closed blooms,
the blue pelt of clutched colors.
Standing at my garden door,
I sip moonlight.
My skin watches;
I am an ember in a wine vat.
In my belly
a coagulant of shadows
washes away stale years.
What is this feral shine?
I lift my face
through opening shoulder blades.
I'm a primal wolf
aware of its dreaming body,
nothing can name me.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2023
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