I marvel at any loving, worn-
out orb, probe the essence of a thing
 
by its scent. I show my love with tongue,
though I tend to teeter between desire
 
and hunger. Hunger primordial as any
want, what drives me into a flurry,
 
teeth bared, calling your name in my own
language. Somehow you taught me
 
to stay, to heel, and with only a word
of release, to feel my own desire
 
drive me into instinct. Some nights,
the moon shines like prey;
 
I call to it. I hear the rustle of leaves
and think, enemy. Then, without waiting
 
for an answer, I collapse
in your arms, into an untroubled sleep.