REYNARD

Eventide
I have heard you, but you
have not sought me,
so have not caught me—
how your fingers have howled
in low tones
in the red cold
eventide.

Each night the trumpets
moan—you have brought home
the white stag; the bristled
boar’s throat still
cakes your teeth. Yet you
have not pursued

this hump
of disconsolate fleshes—
the shudder
that has reft the shade
between your thighs;
the bright pelt

shivering in a winter barrow
yearning to be the
spike of flame
in your dim brambled holt.