Thursday, March 8, 2012

Song's End

Sometimes when we walk
at night
together in this wild northland
we hear
howling of wolves
raw wild desire
for mate
and meat
across phosphorescent
moonlit river

it dies at songs end
to a nuzzling whimper
the night listens
my heart longs
to answer

from wild blood anscestral
to memory tribal
falls faintly an echo
from night-slash by ancient
angel choir:
"Glory to God in the highest,
on earth peace
to men of good-will"

I squeeze your hand
draw you a little near
the anscestral,
the tribal,
the night now silent,
and cold,
and clear.

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