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.