“Canis lupus” Familiar Song of Songs

Feed this to the neighborhood. To the neighborhood dogs 
in heat, I say, the smallish stars hunting what the slow stars 
unscrewed. They streak. They eat all the gravity on the block 
and I bring it back. When I'm got, when she's good, the omega 
bitch rises up like a gorgeous violet weed. She runs high like 
an arrow unleashed. She takes her tail in her mouth. Accomplice 
stars gnaw on the dark. This is how we want to make love out 
at the fence—in fat grass, a hound at our backs, knees rocked 
and boxing a dent under a belled red alarm of alien honeysuckle, 
bodies folding out until huge fogs and landscapes that spell I, I, 
I was prepared to die. So feed this to something fast. Pick me. 
Down in the wings a hunting body paces like black honey and 
I go down. This is how we want to feel against the cellar wall. 
Once I died, in morning. But one thing composted. It was this. 
So female weeds upset the asphalt like a broken wine, and wild 
dogs butchered my heart and fled before it blew. They felt good 
like god, like the body and its sex, forever pushing each other's 
head down in the wave of heaven. Like hot milk, winter fruit, 
gift of the magi, a mother's white Holocene breath. Some heavy 
stars submit: down the street, to a planet's core, unbelievably 
quick. You needn't feed yourself for nights like this. Can't you 
see. My heart's a hotel and it's full with hounds. At your poor 
neck my alpha and omega will leave open a gospel of teeth. Last 
book. First page. A red illumination to light our animal name.