And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.
—Carl Sandburg

Thin light of dawn,
Red’s tangled form
in the bed like a stain,
like spilt rosé.

What have I done?
Red was no Mary.
She had lain with Hunter,
perhaps some others.

Yet, there must be something
that restores virginity
in a woman
who has never been

properly touched.
Restores,
then breaks it again
with tenderness.

And who is more tender than a wolf
with an inexperienced cub?
What began as lust,
a gnawing in the gut,

maybe just my lupine libido,
is something else now.
I’ll say it—
what I dread most—rapturous love—

being captured.
I feel unwell, like someone’s
sewn stones in my belly.
I’m getting the hell out.