The wolf bares fangs
even when sleeping.
Legs move
in rapid dream-twitches;
cheeks quiver from tickling
branches that swipe his head.
Leading the hunt,
he chases with others of the pack-
sweaty fear
fills his nostrils
and sanguine expectation
tingles through his flanks.
Nipping,
then ripping
at the flanks of a deer,
they jump
with him, as one.
Then, the imagined pack
straddles its fallen meal,
dining
without grace.
A lullaby of teeth,
as enamel scrapes against bone,
and the song of sinew,
stretching before tearing free from
the cooling carcass,
fills his night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I dig your style. Definitely. Keep writing.