The Wolves

I hear the wolves

nice and snug in their country homes

staring gluttonously at their televisions

counting bodies out loud

howling at the top of their lungs

for hours on end

I see the wolves

without their sheep’s clothing

stuff their faces with fresh game

elect their token Judas by show of hands

drink the blood of a village

that is still young, a little fruity

the blood of a land strewn with mass graves

for hours on end

I hear the wolves

turn the lights off at midnight

and lawfully rape their wives