My figertips are feet
of another animal
who walks across
the page,
growling,
gurgling for air.

This beast
has no idea
that its footprints
tell a story
through me.

Sometimes
it stops to pee,
and I get writer’s block.

Other times,
it sees a mate
in the distance,
and my poem becomes lewd.

Other times,
especially on winter afternoons,
it stands perfectly still.

It senses something is going on,
that there are forces greater than it,
using it.

and my fingertips stare up at me,
curious, dumbfounded.

These are the moments
when the words leap out of me;
the beast and myself, well,
that’s when we’re closest to God.

That’s when we know there is no sun
to set in the first place.

That’s when we know
that the moon is the mother of us all.