I tied together a few slender reeds, cut notches to breathe across and made such music you stood shock still and then
followed as I wandered growing moment by moment slant-eyes and shaggy, my feet slamming over the rocks, growing hard as horn, and there
you were behind me, drowning in the music, letting the silver clasps out of your hair, hurrying, taking off your clothes.
I can't remember where this happened but I think it was late summer when everything is full of fire and rounding to fruition and whatever doesn't, or resists, must lie like a field of dark water under the pulling moon, tossing and tossing.
In the brutal elegance of cities I have walked down the halls of hotels
and heard this music behind shut doors.
Do you think the heart is accountable? Do you think the body any more than a branch of the honey locust tree,
hunting water, hunching toward the sun, shivering, when it feels that good, into white blossoms?
Or do you think there is a kind of music, a certain strand that lights up the otherwise blunt wilderness of the body - a furious and unaccountable selectivity?
Ah well, anyway, whether or not it was late summer, or even in our part of the world, it is all only a dream, I did not turn into the lithe goat god. Nor did you come running like that.