Friday dusks, three friends watched a horse fence clip
down like dominoes, a ray of bleached barn
and brush of vineyards. Wrinkling the map
across our laps, grape tasted on our lips.
Our car would slow only to the wild goat,
who always stood on the hood of a truck,
who, as it happened, contemplated us:
all eyes, milk, hair, skin. When you were alone
running, and your heart stalled, I think the goat,
in all its intelligence, surely must
have come, her two irises turning blond.
She must have sniffed, nudged you in shrubbery,
even as she nibbled your shirt, your shoes.
We got lost. Your blue Ford Taurus. Our heads
jouncing Route 20. I once heard that goats
see 320 degrees around
their heads with no blind spot in front of them.
We couldn’t know where we were going then.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 18, Issue 4.
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