UNTITLED POEM: The Werewolf, No. 1

his hair smells like ink,
like black ink. Green, blue, gray:
various colors paint his

a silver watch, the metal mined in Africa
grasps his wrist
holding him back from another
who calls
in a foreign tongue
in an empty room
behind the outer wall
from another who is disparate, profane
lonely and silent
playing a game of words through a complex filter
'this and that'

the other calls, saying,
"I cannot articulate that which I desire."

his hair smells like ink
his throat like pencil shavings, rasping against