Taylor Bogle
Love Song of the Coywolf
and I’ll be waxwing . . . — William Woolfitt
Your name like the wild strawberry seed behind my first fang
& its green bone shedding
hides in the roots. I have at night sometimes asked
to say it
the one breath in this cold that might cover me until the rhododendron return
to hold the stars up. After the morning shawl hems
the shadow of its clouded net
after stones frost in the riverlet I begin to make a place
for you
between the candles of the wind shed branches,
your hide the first restless visit of light.