It’s not the violence, I tell
you, that draws me in, we’ve

survived worse, it’s
the porno-proud static it’s

the television glow. It’s
the peel unpeeled. Call it

the sense of control. Between
the fox and the wolf I choose

the blood ax, the groove maker,
the conjured claws bared

to the bone. Lonely beasts
have no idea how to ask

to be invited in. I wanted
to knock you to the ground,

sit upon your shoulder
blade, play with your

nape. I cannot
sleep tonight. Foolish

child, the static glows, I
warned you, go shut the door.