Ascent of Wolf-kin

Have you ever drank from the Dipper?
 
We suckle into a beam of white,
glisten in the sweat of rehearsal.
 
Moons blush
at the frisk of the earth at the navel
pourn into by the wisping tide.
 
Arms gripping in gravity
to the flask that coaxed them there
in a tilt to the side,
at last the blood
sewn so red, the body fumed the sprite frost of the balloon air
in keeping through
to the eclipse of a half-bred soul.
 
A dumbell beaten along the core
chuckling lightly to the chest
its own thrust,
 
and the mouth fell to the sky
in Eros of her bust
that rippled Earth this deep through the Amor group
 
in cause
the night has many eyes,
they say,
so it wants from a thousand angles of the profile of the disrobing shore.
 
Have you ever drank from a Dipper?
Big or Small
shade sinks deep into the rolls
of the waistline
like a trickling fall
into winter,
but sated of fire log.
 
The moon broke to love
at the nexus meet
of a dusk-rent carriage.