And then all sounds stop. Small hoof prints scattered
in sod, like frequent mistakes, deep and fine,
heading off to the remote skyline. Bird
and beast gave pause. The crickets made the sign
of the evil eye. Sylvan moonshine shown;
and you reeled, drunk on dandelion wine.
She could play a tune, unwittingly blown
to us from glen to glen. Sylvan moonshine:
mute in this dim earth; no human vices
slept in her capra face, spreading her blind
bovid thighs and her dispensing plum lips.
Her dew-sodden musk curled all that she does.
Godlike, she makes provisions for mankind.
Frayed, her skirt slips on goat-like hips.
