On all fours and roaming the peculiar half-
hour between orange and blue light, I howl
in response to the silence of the hills
leaning over my city. My city, yes, I speak like a dog
lifting its leg, trying to possess. I speak
and have only names to show for it.
Everything wild comes alive at dusk:
neon and knives, visions of home and her fingertips
plucking my naked spine like a harp.
I would like to learn to play
notes born of the body
that only the body can hear.
I would like to be buried here
in one of the forgotten moments
Pigeons fluster from a nearby rooftop,
flock together for a spell
before vanishing skyward.
If they return it will be different
than how we remember;
it will be different because we remember.
This is how we’ll go, I think,
and I tell her as much. Like the hills
over a city, like the wolves
that no longer inhabit the hills
over our city.
Like the sun gone silent
as night opens its mouth,
our bodies howl in response:
I own less of you
the more of you
I think I know.