Rounding the highway’s
sensual curve,

a meteor’s mouth
bit a hole in the field.

Tiny, black calves
dripping with dawn

painted the wound with
black-brushed hooves.

Driver’s like you or me
reach for whatever fee

is required to breathe
the same air as them.

Though chewing green
from the sky’s blue hand

that fell from a spoon
of milky clouds, something

gold and crimson stained
unyoked the night from

their mother’s wombs.
Sunrise framed their shadows.
~ ~ ~

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have been in Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, Columbia Journal, Western Humanities Review, and others. His poems are forthcoming in West Trade Review, Duende Literary Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Magnolia Review, Isthmus Review, Glass Mountain Magazine, Columbia College Literary Review, January Review, Under a Warm Green Linden, Yemassee, Cumberland River Review, and Burningword Literary Journal. His books, This New Breed: Gents, Bad Boys and Barbarians, an Anthology, and Confessions of a Pentecostal Buddhist, can be found on Amazon. Visit Daniel at