Ghost
Like the moon on all fours,
the bull graced my driveway.
As the grapevines defrosted,
I found him on my side
of eighteen peeling pickets.
He huffed in the right mirror
of my white Chevrolet.
He met my eyes,
and, as if a hybrid of
a wino caught pissing on gravel and
silk falling from the kitchen table,
he slipped into fog.
