The Lycanthrope

Then the wild child spoke, always
In an eager ambush, the proselyte!
The voice that shrugs shoulders and
Galvanizes the stagnant air past
Redemption or prophecy, past
Any reduction to time; no, just the desperate
Will to create the desultory bliss of (now!)
Tonight, here, (now!) again, always (now!).

The wild child who bristled on the neck
When the moon turned full, bristled with
Urgency and fever and the furious will
To exhume the evanescence of tonight
(now!) with those that longed to jazz and howl
Beneath the fragrant creamy moonlight.
The wild child! May he never know
The inert yet ceaseless accumulation of
These wild nights.