Tortilla Wolf Monster

Chipped, Aztec lines

Create a map of the world inside the wolf’s head -

A purple winding stream, the black line

Of mountains –a nexus which doesn’t happen

To give you cardinal directions – but instead

A mesmerizing eye puckering through the paper -

That you must lick in order to get high enough

To experience the high between us -

With the orange spine

Back to the pointy, spaded dragon

That lives across the boundary

To the agave forest

And the pueblo-stoned desert

Where the dry, tortilla wolf monster

Howls at the pale moon.