Alexander Scalfano



I weep for the animals
that never make it to siberia
there is a tiger there
with razors in his snowshoes
prowling a wild range
four hundred square miles
I would love to meet him
just to press his eyes
to my chest
the black disc of his widened senses
snapping the back of a wild boar
leaving ribbons of blood
across the north of everything
inside my life
I would unleash him



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