Gay Wolves Fucking
To think I have thumbs, four
extra digits upon each hand.
So much skin. Shoes stamp
stray leaves, scale sidewalks
where once was green, flatten
trails through the underbrush.
I search for stories outside
of building levels, hunting
for humanity in the clawed.
Each sole: too sensitive to adjoin
this aging earth, rough, scarred
like a palm blessed with many life-
lines. I watch them as I walk,
wondering when my legs will cease
their steady intervals like a wind-
beaten branch against a window,
eying its grasping shadow
the way we watch each other up
and down streets, saying "excuse me"
or not, brushing past in crowds
tight as a swarm of wildebeests.
But we are no longer animals.
Your lines press mine in a shake,
split-second as a sting.
We'll know each other by grip,
curve of our lips, the depth
of a laugh, sincerity of goodbye.
And I may explain life
as a military brat, where in town
to order the best moo goo gai pan,
my name, how long ago I outgrew
counting age with these hands.
May risk twisting a cute girl
lilting by into our conversation,
deciphering the orientation
of your response; scrambling mine.
To you I am at face value. Human.
Even as these hands find home
along the row asdfghjkl;'
inhabit, my mind wandering,
wondering about a new skin, a new
way to touch, discovering
its illicitness like the curves
and imperfections of first love.
To think myself other than human.
I am typing with these hands:
a vignette about two wolves,
same sex, almost human, fucking
as we do, all fur and fang and paw,
instinct swirling with their breaths,
with every thrust, the eventual tie,
all the nature I could want
burgeoning as fast as these fingers,
these thumbs, can fly.