Whats True

They flock no more.
Sweet swans known to spread their wings.

Perhaps
I no longer
Have lurking eyes for them to spy.

What is true
I'm now unlicensed,
And refuse to hunt or howl.

Take note
To gain my affection
You must caress each dog-eared poem.

Slithering,
Swaggering, posturing
In my woods of book marked indulgence.