Through the left-hand window the moon
Appears each night smaller, later,
Fainter, and finally, gone.
The third night of darkness
Its thin crescent appears
On the sine-wave of love and suicide—
I feel its sway in my genitals,
In my spine, in my legs and mouth.
Every night I forget my name,
Speak a language I never knew.
I want to steal a car
And drive madly west
To the Sierra Madre, to the Pacific,
But the moon is already there—
It is easy to name her Hunter.
I feel the horn in my brain.

Published in The Louisville Review