Nightjar

Foxed by her

Askew movement

The cupped possibility

That beneath warm sheets

Rises playfully up

In her parents’ room

Hinting that our old license

Has not wholly expired

And still I yearn

Sucker for a twist

I can’t resist

The invitation of a path

So obscure and uncertain

Such a crooked target

The dancing daughter

Who charged the sky

Naked in her witchery

A nightjar a bat

An owl

A dryad mixed up with the trees

At the temple of the covered well

The flame upon her

Still burning nights

And the odor of strange flowers

Conducting

The dance around her golden calves