Goatherd Dream

I’m not supposed to leave
the pen. I’m to stay here
all night, but someone

is playing shadow puppets
with the moon, wonky penumbra
in the shape of a face, so

I lift the wooden latch,
fingers performing the work
of eyes; I know if I look away,

I’ll forget. Some neighborhood kids
slink past my peripherals and
through the gate before it swings

shut, but goat guard isn’t my job
anymore­­ — now self-appointed
hunter of the weird sky,

hoping to lipread a lunar mouth,
racing for an unobstructed view
and finding myself

waist-deep in lake water,
slogging toward the opposite shore
wracked with boats (broken

or just old). I think I know
the shadow will say
what a good shepherd I used to be.