Hunting Streetlamps in the Moonlight

a figure crumpled in a pile in the rain
wrapped in a blanket
he is at home in the lightning
and there has been drought
so he weeps and smiles,
weeping in his homecoming

she is the crazy one
the runner
the barefoot lunatic
racing across new fallen snow
hacking down the streetlamps
once the moon is right

they once slept together
in the garden
just slept
to imagine being lifted together by the earth pushing upward
no violene in its palms
they laid down to bed
wishing themselves an altar in the grass

every blemish on his conscience
the many imperfections of his skin
are borne brightly in the water's shimmer
he wades into the lake
naked as a man can be
he shows the stars his palms
"may i burn brightly for someone," he begs
"as you do for me"

their lips and breath
their tongues and touch
and the honesty of their sex
theirs is an offering
a humble submission of what they understand
that there is no magic
no, this is much better than that
we do not paint or write or sculpt
by spell or curse or prayer

we create with our curves
and exhale our truths
confessed in moans that slip from a masterpiece
between our ribs and thighs
and so suddenly, with our sweat, in the wily content of our naked breaths
in these motions
and the lips I rest on you forehead
we do all these things
paint and write and sculpt
and sing and dance and roll atop and around one another's concessions to this fellowship

and then take to our backs,
and lie, heaving
gluttons for these breaths

and we look to our right
and there is our history
sprinting in the rain
its hands wrapped around trees, bounding, leaping through the woods
but not lost
and so not yet quite finished

rolling our heads looking left
the early dew soaks our hair
and we find our future
alive in the exploration
and ever thankful for the searching

but upon us is the present
and in this now we stoke our fires
and speak our stories
roll and walk in the field
and in our wake leave legacies
subtle as the prints which claim our fingers
and true as our genuflection to the storm

it is around the crack and spit of this blaze
that the mercilessness of this life
is stripped nude
and when the wood splits and pops
and your naked feet are stained by the wet grass on which you jump and dance
know that in this company
are the hearts for whose existence
gods are invented
and on the wind, in this wild
you'll find the conviction
which bends the knees of blanketed men
beneath the thunderclap
and sends the feet of crazed women running
in the snowfall
hunting streetlamps in the moonlight.