Rut

		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.