Wolf Enough

Wolf enough, he prowled outside the pack,
nozzle to moon and baying loneliness,
or laired in ice, unpaired, he felt the lack
of someone furred to share his coldnesses—
and well aware of that close, beaten track
of others who together dogged the world,
flashing their fangs before the bloody act,
a gruesome and exclusive group that snarled.
He was no different in his pelt of fact,
with pricking ears, and nose wet for the hunt,
meant for auroras and the arctic black,
a tense tailed jaw of hunger, pawed to jump—
except a certain wolflessness within
left him out of it, kept him from joining in.