Wolves run in packs, each pounding body
jostling for position, akin to
males surrounding a rose flower
crammed on a sofa, like sardines.
Each bowing, trying to get in, nuzzle
into ground like pigs to truffles
muzzles snouts with nose and ear rings
and hats like clowns.
Actual crying sounds,
in surround-sound sounding
off about times when they
found their own flower to sing about.
A thorny issue no doubt.
Sit taking it in, trying to tune in,
Catching a glimpse of eyes
THOSE eyes, the ones that sing like
sparkling jewels in a sunbeam.
Ruby glints and sighs, laughs
and surprising smiles.
Banter and good times.
Flick flick reading
looks and tiny changes of minds.
But actually aching, waiting for
signs and signals to go
back to what was
And on and on goes the aching.
by Paul Sinclair