Steppenwolf

lids opening on a sheathed eye

undress in gradual moulting layers the unerring pitch 

shuttering a wild caption; scenes to savour  

before filing alongside the lassitude of dense ferns.

Existing in a snatched breath, beyond mythology 

cascading down forth upon an isthmus of cold flesh

before loosing the prey; a vixen tracked and scruffed,

taunting with circumspect yips.

The banshee in every tongue of flame disappears  

as the first fog lolls out and laps at us

and we slip into the vortex, the comfortable void

where we sculpt our echos and flashes.