The old roaring me

The old roaring me, the one that lives off gut:

the original face of my true intuitions
the one that knows before it listens
the one with instincts that don’t lie

that small being of my already always conversations
that almost knows what I already sense, and finds its way
through frozen mud, hunting through cold darkness by scent

where my thoughts cross unmarked snow toward home.

That’s the old roaring me
the one that lives off gut