The last summer moon stalks the woods; satyr
girl-parts, cast in shadows. In the small night
dogs bark, Dark I cannot sleep. The fine fur
on your legs tickles my neck. This delight
only takes me so far, moon, Moon, your goat
legs crouch over me. Slowly the light melts,
my face runs, night-noises thrum in my throat,
a tune, a late summer breeze leaving welts,
love bites, sticky cum, all over. But who
am I to the night? I nurse the dying.
I am there when they pass. Now my nocturne,
goat girl, is nothing like yours. I miss you.
Once there was the rude fuck, deep dream, godling,
before death, all we ever did was burn.
I’m a hospice nurse aide, which means I spend most my nights at the bedside of dying people, usually patients who don’t have families or friends to be with them. The downside of working nights is that it screws up my ability to sleep like normal people and without sleep how can one dream? The Dalai Lama said that sleep is the best meditation. No wonder all my thoughts run like crooked little paths.