Lone Valentin

The solstice showed up.
A moon. Luminescence
playing like jellyfish
in the puddle of the dying sleet.
Stamps of boots
on the skin of turf,
hands with bloody sauce,
a critter, hunting for his missing rib.
The inventor tore it out
in his sleep for a girl,
though, she does not need it.
He’s trashing and snuffling.
He wants no trouble, only his rib,
and the jolly nights that have dulled
under the tinted lights.
He drools and howls, the walk
of a hungry wolf.
His stiff hand on the cavity.
His animal feeling in his pocket.