On a night like this, I hear the spiritin simple three-four beat. Even if my heartgets tired believing. Almost naked,standing in a barn. Now I understandbefore and after giving. Da capo,if the voice survives. Anxietyand my navel trying to openlike a foolish eye. Sight and touch,two battles to fight. I watchthe blur of a gray horizon shiftbefore dividing into two feralzones. Coil a sash aroundmy groin to heal the snake in me,slow passing of joy, in the midstof ripeness. Of lust. Of reason.Of penitence. Nipples largeand eager to please. With remorseand quick glory. Moonlight losesits greasy flex. The air smells youngbut unsafe. I think of a one-leggedpoet who brews glutinous rice wineand writes about black goatsgiving birth in the mountain heat.Well-behaved in a fauve landscape—among poppies and nomads who feedthem shamefully. Goats do not preparefor rain or transition. They stand nearthe graves because of their safeguard.Waves toss in their eyes before sleepor exercise. Helpless in a world wherethe spirit moves the real. Where raintastes like a drug and is seen air by air.