for howling, or
something
a primal echoed epitaph 
undaunted,
celestial in biography
forestalled
and 
wanting
the fairest face, most far
away,
while each
beast
mutters his tune,
if
not shouting,
scowling,
in unrequited harmony,
be it vast or
slivered,
matters both and
neither,
as that compulsion,
that loudest unspoken requiem
for longing, vague
unbelonging
yet
drawn and 
driven
akin, or exactly by
lunacy

but,
she should hear me, bellowed,
even 
all the way up
there,
with that stolen
light
of day,
the one that she wears better,
anyway