Poem: Washed

We are washed in the
superheated blood of
experience, driven like
mad things and cattle
at stampede against
the strongest wind

We are bitten by the
teeth of our passions
and the hungry fangs
of all the other wolves
in the pack, alpha to
delta and up again--

Reborn as the cold morning
cracks, left with scars,
burned by the heated
blood, pierced by fang
and talon, finding only
a confused ambivalence
with which to nourish
us as we run ever further
into the hidden horizon
of the future.