Can you imagine? Between moon-and-moon, a month to birth this forest from my mouth. The tight buttocks of twenty swift hinds encircle me. I prize their girth. I goad. Our guttural sex sings to the edge of the world; beyond, there is nothing. I inoculate these fields, piss out the river’s channel— my fertile tongue scrapes stars like moss from rocks. I bray my bollocks off, spend these long nights curdled in sound.