In the forest of hooves

In the forest of hooves, in the forest of horsehair, he sleeps
inside the tree the deep sleep of the tree.
Here the wind blows from sea to sea
and at nights the moon is two slender knees
that glow side by side!
The mad horses of the night
are loosened from their halter, thighs
press against their flanks like love
that won't give, won't open, won't yield
anything from itself.
In the dusk the wind moves, a lime tree plant
wanders in the dark still, not knowing
of love that won't give of itself.
One that won't consent, even if
the whole dark sky of the night
and the manure mounds steaming in the dawn
begged it.
Inside the forest of horsehair he sleeps,
clinging to love amidst lean moon knees.
Clinging to love that robs days and seasons
of their names, and won't even let the snow rest.
That won't give, won't yield
but withholds,
won't caress, won't mitigate.
And though the thickets now get lighter
at the corners of the night, love won't
loosen, the gate won't open.
He's asleep, bruised with love
so without himself.
All nights and moons,
asleep, never resting.

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