In Maine, one afternoon,
            I came home to a goat

kissing the living room’s

            sliding glass door in defiance
of the whole town, which was on alert
            because his owner said

that he was lost and vulnerable,

            with a rope around his neck

that could get caught

            on anything. But no, this goat,

all one hundred fifty pounds of him —

            “Petey” was his name —

was lapping himself up,

            after arriving of his own accord
on a grim spring day,
            his tether loose,

his cloven hooves clicking
            against the bricks, his pupils
the dark slits of a beast

            too long in the woods,

his lips ready to nibble

            the rope around my neck.