Poem called "Tame Wild Goat."
These poems are mostly all true.
You know, I guess that's the nature of a diary kind of style
or--
simply, it was the middle of the summer, and a goat appeared.
Sometimes, on the wind swirling out of the canyon,
there's a flute music.
And no one knows where they buried
the man who kept the goat herd.
What's visible is a broken corral,
and a three walled hut where the trail ends.
The herd scattered, gone wild, lost in the game preserve.
The goat enters the house through the door,
like a beautiful woman.
How easily Judy leads her, the body
aroused and something wild, needing to be milked.
If an animal needs man, it has our own ways.
She remembers the herder, comes inside, an ode off the wind,
and Judy her own music.
It is that simple.
I think of a time, in the evening's half light,
you can see shapes and forms but not the detail.
Though sensing movement, you feel what is there.