In My Dream

Wolves flecked with gray lie in wait amidst birch trees
that are on their side, trees that will not betray their brethern
but I feel the molecules exhale from lupine mouths
into mine, and am afraid.

I go clutch a book from the library but diagnosis is impossible,
I am not flying, or crashing, or being tangibly chased yet
dark eyes follow my footsteps, noting how I wear
grooves into my chosen spots loam, just around nightfall.

Now and then, I can
hear branches crushed underfoot and, somewhere
between the snaps of wood, a sound,

a low sound, rumbling from the earth's guts,
a sound that twitches my thighs. I picture ears upped
bodies unhaunch, creeping nearer as they time my gait,
preparing to spring as mountains
blot the sun, their trigger my feet
pressing into the same worn earth

then I leap over one such spot
and break into a dead run
alone
weaving in and out of trees