Your nails
still refuse
to drag along
my skin.
Snow leopard.
You…
Your nails
retracted,
tongue curled, folded.
Padding away
into a mountains
dark crevices.
Where I,
kokburu player,
goat tosser extraordinaire,
mad skier across Tuvan skies,
lasso in hand and elk before me…
am still not allowed
to pursue.
My rope whipping out,
unanswered,
quivering,
inept.
Writer Moe 