We’re so late-stage that we trade our storm-wet cash for synthetic fuzz, as if fleece wasn’t the shorn warmth of a bleating thing.

There is a new wolf in me this winter and I can’t keep it fed. I can’t stray near livestock, can’t turn up to casual drinks in blood, musk, and appetite.

I’d pay a lot for a fence that could hold me. When it becomes Queens, the bus route runs along Fresh Pond Rd without even rumor of reservoir.

Today was the day I paid for a new gym membership and also the day I told the sales associate I’d be cancelling it after the first month, I’m just visiting.

I’m trying to say that I’m trying to stay out in the elements until I can’t feel much of myself. I proffered my share of the rent, but no one took it.

At night, the meat of me is tender. What is a predator to do, soaked through? I wore wool, weatherlogged and weighing. Looked good enough to go home with.

A mouth rough enough it broke skin without asking. And that was okay. I can’t find the scar anymore when I want it, want someone else’s teeth to sink.