It’s the coat, really,
True black and prized
like a smart black cat
with a bright white racing stripe
down its back, a coat so black
it contains night, the moon,
even me. I understand this urge
to rise up and take the dark.
My tight-fisted dreams are all animal.
And that slow pungent scent
wafting through the chilled November air
is a declaration of war
for all who cross our dream path.