I will summon again the wise, unreliable counsel of what remains

of childhood memory, to make what I can from the times

I saw myself in the eyes of the animals who lowered or turned 
their heads to me. I was curious, and while not without fear

I wanted to be close, if not to touch, then to inhale

and understand, my senses tactile and raw. When a goat came to 
the end of its rope where I was waiting on my knees on a carpet

of thistledown and the bones of sticks from a dying cottonwood

it looked at me, its breath like bits of wind off a wet paddock. 
When it put its face to mine in a gesture I saw as curiosity

and welcome, its eyes contained black slashes, as though identical

cuts were still healing, then it stepped back and chewed sideways 
before my forehead was printed and opened by twin mounds

of horn. I was laid out cold on my cousin’s farm by a head-butt

from a goat called Cobber. Years later, my father told me 
that Cobber had been led by his rope to be prepared, then served

with beer and salad to cricketers by the Bendemeer River.

I can still see myself in a small way, leaning forward in my need 
to be nuzzled and accepted into that eaten-down world.

I can imagine the shape of my mouth before the country light

went out, it was trying to make all kinds of sounds for hello.