There is always room
for an indiscrete shredding
of clothes at the front door,
a gliding claw,
a ruff of feathers,
a cloven foot,
bristling hairs across the neck,
a snarl of teeth,
the blackness of eyes,
an over-the-top-fur coat,
extended paws,
a loping walk.

There is only one rule here:
you have to learn how to howl
at the moon.

And in the morning when you
are curled naked at the front door
someone will let you in.