Pulling the Moon

I’ve never made love to a man.
I’ve never made love to a man but I imagine.

                         I imagine pulling the moon.
                         I imagine pulling the moon out of his brow.

Pulling the moon out of his brow and eating it again.

                         Eating and pulling his hair in silence.
A kind of silence when the moon goes out.

When the moon goes back and forth between us.

A kind of silence lit for only a moment.
Seeing for a moment through the eyes of the horse.

                         Through the eyes of the dead horse
                         that burns slower than my hair.

My hair that burns the moon off.
My hair with a hand inside it.