Over the ridge, we entered back pastures
and ran our fingers under the belly of the moon,
which made and unmade us into pitch, clothed us
in the thinnest inch, the softest snowfall of light.
We stepped through barbed stars like boxers
into the ring and kissed there amid the sweet
fecundity of rot, the ruined farmhouse, the earth
whose hay-filled pastures blossomed up.
We preened the feathers at our shoulder blades
and lay burning, levitating, beatified.
We dressed in less than what undressed us
and lingered there, milking the milk-white light,
me and a woman I wanted more than loved.
Amazed with night’s grand happiness, we made
our way back toward the human fires and came
upon the black angus herd. The cows encircled
their calves against us. All we saw of them were
spines, ribs, quick flashes from wet snouts and eyes.
Yet we could feel the bull elsewhere grazing,
lift from bliss, turn to us, and gore the moon.