the grounds are wet

bruised-blue

dragging through the fogged valley

shrill horizons ahead

a shore of flesh 

a blind winnow 

 

I am the hunt for wind 

unteemed 

about the arms

unbound moor

an answer

a witchgrass molasses 

spilling from the gut

blood pooling at the base of belly

cradled between thigh and calve fold

sallow puce

the wet ardor

In the search

I am found.

I am lupine 

in the frolic 

of things.