Are You the Wolf who Stood at the Edge of a Forlorn Fairy Tale?

...against the pink sky the bones are still crackling

refusing to melt in the heat. The fire that lit up

anecdotes now folds winter in your eyes. Are you

the same that howled for Princess Vasilisa? Her

hair brush was a forest of fresh seasons. This mist

rises from your cold fur that you couldn't get rid of.

Don't wait for the moon. The threads of dry rivers

have used it to spin a forlorn valley where you

would catch her smell; that was a dew eons ago.

These tufts of grass that sleep at your legs are kingdoms

she surrendered for you. Your blood never heated again.

When the sky turns red, you might find an address:

You might find fire.

Published in Visual Verse