[Moonshiners all night along the ridge swinging]
Moonshiners all night along the ridge, swinging
their lanterns like cow tails. Thinking instead
of a cattle herd takes none of the edge away.
I tell you the night bears its blade in sound & sight,
the hilt itself the weight of your own body, a grain sack
across your shoulders. The crisp snap in darkness
could be the broken twig of one approaching,
or it’s a vision of her snapping pole beans
in the garden. The prickle on my back
could be what warm memory feels like, or any
number of night’s haunts hunting my head.