THE PACK
We runners, we howlers, we night things, hunters and gatherers of kin, of bones. We mad and
mangy pups, yips in our mothers’ dark. We dogs unleashed to the side-streets and subways,
noses pressed to the undercurrents of our city, these tunnels and their trains our homes, ever
moving and full of food. We mess of mongrels, we brothers and sisters, tonguing bright our fur
and wounds and hearts. We worshippers, we gods, we embers, we burn quick in the cool nights,
our teeth happy, breath hot, we crazy creatures stray far, stray hard.
Glint Literary Journal 