They move
a dark palimpsest
of his labors,
more the cloven hooves
of animals
than the tender
appendages of men.
Even in his sleep
they move,
as if to the muted
drums of his dreaming.
They tremble
in the moonglow,
warmed by the ragged
bellows of his breath,
redolent
with the musk
of teat and udder.