330 in the morning
is when the world is at its
still point.
pendulums run out of momentum.
leaky faucets slow almost to a halt.
even dogs sleep, undisturbed by shadows and
paranormal whispers.
this is when i am caught
somewhere in between insomnia
and curiosity.
dark curls spilling
on the keyboard
typing with one hand
in the dark
like an amputee conductor
leading a deaf orchestra
in slippers and a robe
and i think,
sleep is for those who know what will
happen next.

if you want a wild thing to walk next to you
if you crave the company
of conquistadors
hoping to become a lion tamer
a horse whisperer
a crocodile wrestler

beware,
what makes a thing wild.

heart in the wind and teeth at the ready,
they are fence jumpers.
they are storm riders.
they will chew your arm off
in the name of freedom
long before thier own.

they are raw and
hardened by the rules

of love and loss.
all the while
haunted by sunsets, and
fires.

Promises of love,

And calm.

They are
driven feral.


if you want to hold a wild thing
remember,
its only a matter of time
before she slips away,
before he drifts out of
your reach.

the only hold you have
is on the memory.
one day you will be old,
they will be old
the memory will fade into
others, like puddles of time

disappearing in the sun
you will only recall
a smell, a taste,
shoes shuffling dead leaves,
a laugh, a hand on yours
holding you on the ground
for just a second.