In the darkness the moon opens
and there is nothing but light
in the twists of its mind,
the unthought of dreams
of dead men bending back toward the earth,
reaching the eyes of renegade children
out late and hungry and cold,
hiding low in the fields and woods,
listening to the voices of light
which mother them
in the wisdom of abandonment.
Only from a distance may I watch
for when certain that they are alone
they rear up on hind legs,
whinny like devil bred stallions
upon the broadest plain
and, tossing back their hair,
dart into each others’ arms
until a pact is branded upon their hearts.
No longer do they belong
to this world, this race, this language.
By morning their signs
will appear on the walls
of restrooms and bus stations,
the magic circles of love,
and stark, bright words of warning,
and messages only they can read,
the indelible rhythms of
of a strange, new rite.