Can’t find wolves round here — you’re convinced
you can, and not just when the wind shakes its muzzle.
The body-parts in the garden become familiar as ferns,
as does the turn in the stomach: the affirmation
of each organ as meat. They are piecemeal puzzles:
the black bean of a mouse’s gall bladder, a hunk of pork.
Howls spread from the paddock, racket the angles
of your bedroom until you come-to quietly,
pack hound through the copse of your duvet,
remembering dew on your feet, that dream of leaving
chunks of meat on the lawn, tripping through a furred circle
of curdled milk left for a cat you haven’t seen in weeks.