Through Montana on my motorbike
I was actually alone
Nothing with me but my climbing boots, a sixer and a knife
I couldn't tell you
If I saw the moose stepping out into the road that night
If his eyes looked like two fireflies, or reflectors on an ugly sign

But when I opened my eyes again it had been removed;
an ancient, angry antler from this punctured lung
It had narrowly missed a beating heart and an electric spinal cord

Awake some nights
I think about the moose stepping out onto the yellow line,
and if he saw a bright white headlight or if it looked just like the moon
moving in towards him for the first time in a long life of solitude