GPerkLake@AOL.com 

Predatory poet,

loosening creaks in a musty heart,
loses sky in a vacuum
of a night's imitation,
his voice not heard for plain reasons
snug among high placed desert noises.

"You are, obviously,
not for them.
You, obviously,
follow an unheard sound,
a poetic not felt."

So he stalks them
like the rested coyote
relentlessly agitated
by the next hot scent
and blood on his tongue,
unswayed by any soft wind.

© Copyright, 1999, Guy Perkins.
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.