“Coyote”

I used to be in love,
but now just a bone without
meat.
Dogs might gnaw me,
but only out of instinct.
Nothing really remains,
but a scent that can't decant.
Nothing much pains,
but fingering frost to find
a curious lack of moss
on wet wood.
I used to be in love,
but now
just a bone without meat.
Dogs? They whine.
I laugh
and close the door slow.
But they
are
still out there, I know
they don't have any place
better to starve. I do.
But I've got nowhere to be,
but in the bed where
I dream. I used to be in love,
you see,
like teeth and meat.
I used to be in love,
you see,
like jaws with the hand
that comes too close.
Love behind inch thick glass.
Love, steamy with demands.
Love, reflected now
and from the past, but how?
Photography? Telepathy?
"Don't," she said.
"Don't," I say back.
Nobody did. Nothing.
I chew on my own wound.
I am not rabid anymore.
I used to be in love.
I used to be. But now,
not anymore.
I am no longer breathing
out my mouth, onto the floor.

narrative poem written on 01-17-2018 by: on mattkane.com
view image of poem

SHARE THIS POEM!

- Remove line breaks