In the lair of the she wolf, much to feel, but none is seen. All possessions in the wrong mood, remnants kept from what she's been. She is grinning. Pools her might. Teeth dropped off thwn bites lost meaning.
Teeth fall off inside the night.
Natural for such like she beasts is to snatch a hug on prey, after a consuming thirst-treat, hurl off prey, push, cast away. Wrong she was to breast her pleasures, didn't snatch, to bite no teeth. Wrong she was, when tired, aging, thriving, she sought lively beasts. All were busy in their dark ring, sharing some flashlight births. A charged brink.