A poem not about rocks

Warm in my bed.Layer on layer separateshut me from the cold air of my room,insulate the bare skin I've shed towhile heard in the kitchen, after hours,consequent flesh of my flesh whiles an hour to midnightwith waiting wolfor lamb.I will know with no harm doneor blood blotting her sifted snow.
Eavesdrop I, tally seconds to a witching hour,wounding with doubt if lamb he proves,but cooling carcasses, fur scarlet-stained in a drifttrump what grievance I give.
Alone in my layers, count 60 then again.12 to come and see her wholebut the dark will come again, the cold, andI'll retreat to layers and let her live,
unearth the wolf or lamb.