The moon’s a silver racehorse:
Quicker than the crier god,
And more clever on his feet.
From his horseshoes, I cleaved
Little spoons, to stir in sweets,
And set them near a lonely cup,
Dips bound by milk and honey.

Bedspread flung in crooked bents,
Drink steeped on the windowsill,
I laid his body beneath
Glass sheets, and heard—like hoofbeats—  
thudding stars, rushing along the east,
Setting bets on who will win:
The sun, or me, or sleep.