She told me to turn off
The main highway
It was late and we were both
Tired driving home
But she wanted to stop
At the side of a country road
And stand in the cold
Away from the lights of cars
And look at the full blood
Moon from the deep snow
Of the farmer’s field and his
Rotting barn which should
Have been torn down yesterday:
Its red wash peeled bare
And bleached dry —
All slats and holes now and empty
Save for our own warm regard
And habit of seeing it when we passed
And the full moon leaning heavy against it
About to topple into slivers of sparkling stars.