Thresh your way
Through the nodding poppies.
Search for the muscled cat,
The steel coyote blue-washed
By the setting moon.
Like all else,
You’ll lose them in shadow
Before morning.  Loss is
A ghost path through deep grass,
Its forks, its finite lines,
Its disappearance.
And you can dream it,
Angle through cloud,
Wake from the dream
And, awake now, dream it again.