We ran through midnight woods,
flashlights kept low and seldom,
we thought we could become
brothers in the moon’s fraternity.
Phosphorescent glowing,
literally otherworldly,
it painted the leaves,
the undergrowth,
ourselves,
all that was below the stars
in navies and blacks.
Twigs and underbrush
sounding off beneath our boots,
the foxes and coyotes
slept off somewhere nearby,
frogs and mosquitoes in stagnant puddles
remaining from the other night’s storm.
The highway so far off,
high-speed traffic didn’t dare
make an imprint on our night,
only an occasional plane,
higher than sound,
red-and-white-blinking satellites.
Bobby’s arm caught some farmer’s
rusted barbed wire fence,
and even that red
as J. R.’ s needle-nose
extracted metal from flesh
couldn’t color the moon.
