The Muse, or Stars Out on Interstate 81 South

On the tip of a hill, the silhouette is of something not of this world, the body silent in the birth of another shadow, swelling still among stars & veins. The sun dropping below the mountains left hardly any light, except what glimmers on the membrane & slips into the high grass. Alone, I pulled over to the side of 81 where semis’ blowing horns descend beyond the sloped field. Pieces of barbed wire snapped from the line. I stepped through the fence, its blood-colored rust rubbed into my hands. For a moment, it is something that stays with me, like a memory that does not give up easily. I try wiping my hands onto my jeans, but nothing. It is anything it wants to be—calf, half-life, angel—its fur a glaze of cricket sounds & cool air, a thing of stars burnt into hooves, a haze, & I stood there, not knowing whether it would be right to touch the one not breathing, its nose drying in the grass next to my hands, grit in the creases & burning now with the dust of splinters. Like flies, my fingers hover over the dead face.